MRS.    CLYDE 


OF  GALUT.  UMART.  LOt 


MRS.    CLYDE 

The  Story  of  a  Social  Career 


By 

JULIEN   GORDON^ 
Author   of  A  Puritan  Pagan 


New  York 

D.  Appleton  and  Company 
1901 


COPYRIGHT,  1901, 
BY  D.  APPLETON  AND    COMPANY. 


MRS.   CLYDE 


CHAPTER    I 

"  WHY,  girls !  Double  puffs  all  round ! 
Ringletta,  too,  with  her  curls  tucked  up!  What 
a  surprise!  How  well  you  all  look — I  meant  to 
do  your  hair  for  you,  and  you  are  already  in  the 
fashion!  And,  Gella — my,  what  a  beauty!  " 

The  carry-all  had  landed  its  freight  at  the 
piazza  steps,  on  which  four  young  girls  were  sit- 
ting in  a  row,  airing  themselves,  after  their  day's 
work,  this  mild  November  afternoon.  The 
work  had  been  half  practical,  half  intellectual. 
They  rested  in  the  twilight. 

The  freight  was  breathless  with  unspent 
speech,  exclamatory,  vivacious,  pretty,  slender, 
even  elegant.  Her  small  trunk,  propped  on  the 
front  seat,  was  lowered  by  Ezekiel,  the  coach- 
man, and  left  unceremoniously  upon  the  gravel, 
end  upward.  Two  of  the  girls  surrounded  and 

i 

2129733 


Mrs.  Clyde 

kissed  her,  two  others  seized  the  small  box  be- 
tween them  and  pulled  it  upon  the  veranda. 

"  I  only  brought  this  valise,  because  my  hus- 
band expects  me  back  in  the  early  train  Mon- 
day." There  was  a  slight  toss  of  the  head;  the 
voice  held  a  triumphant  note.  The  girls  looked 
at  each  other  and  laughed. 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Ringletta,  "  how  married 
we  are!"  Her  real  name  was  Gertrude,  but 
from  early  infancy  her  tangle  of  brown  curls  had 
named  her.  Now  they  were  no  longer  tangled, 
but  caught  up  and  confined  by  the  exigency  of  a 
late  mode.  She  was  exceedingly  fair,  sweet,  re- 
fined, but  her  figure  hardly  matched  her  lovely 
face.  It  was  boyish  in  its  spareness,  the  waist 
a  trifle  short,  the  arms  angular,  and  she  lacked 
what  the  girls  called  "  style  " — in  vulgar  French, 
chic.  Chic  is  not  taste,  but  character — inherent; 
never  learned.  It  is  not  a  matter  of  an  occa- 
sional good  gown  or  hat.  She  and  Gabriella 
were  the  beauties  of  the  flock.  Mary  and  Lyd- 
ian  were  less  handsome,  albeit,  tall  and  straight, 
and  comely  enough  as  maidens  go,  hardly  yet 
out  of  their  early  teens.  They  were  all  full  of 
spirit  and  energy — that  New  England  energy 


Mrs.  Clyde 

which  knows  no  rest  until,  having  performed 
prodigies  in  the  intoxication  of  its  own  fatigue, 
it  breaks  suddenly  at  high-water  mark  and  leaves 
wreckage  in  its  wake.  It  has  not  learned  the 
value  of  repose. 

Gabriella,  although  older  than  young  Mrs. 
Devereux,  was  her  particular  friend  and  favour- 
ite, and,  after  a  brief  colloquy  in  the  hall,  at- 
tended her  to  her  "  chamber." 

This  was  a  pleasant  room  on  the  first  floor, 
which  looked  out  across  the  lawn,  where  it  lost 
itself  in  the  mill-stream  that  flowed  by,  swift  and 
deep.  Weeping  willows  leaned  across  the  water, 
whose  silence  was  later  incited  to  turbulence 
where  it  turned  the  mills. 

Ellen,  the  servant,  and  one  of  the  girls  had 
carried  the  guest's  trunk  and  deposited  it  under 
the  window-sill.  This  maid,  who  cooked  the 
meals  and  served  them,  which  double  feat  she 
achieved  with  marvellous  dexterity,  had  still  her 
sleeves  rolled  to  the  elbow,  with  vestiges  of  her 
bread-making  between  her  rough  red  fingers  and 
on  her  sturdy  arms.  A  stalwart  Irishwoman 
came  for  three  days  every  week  to  do  the  family 
washing.  During  those  days  the  house  was  al- 

3 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ways  pervaded  with  the  smell  of  soap-suds;  the 
midday  meal  was  somewhat  abridged;  there  was 
a  cold-cut  and  no  pudding,  although  fruit  and 
preserves  were  served,  with  richest  cream  and 
cakes. 

Gabriella  was  fond  of  sweets  and  ate  so 
many  that  her  complexion  suffered.  Later, 
when  she  learned,  with  many  other  things,  the 
wisdom  of  abstemiousness,  her  complexion  be- 
came very  beautiful.  It  coarsened  again  in  her 
last  years. 

"  You  are  a  regular  beauty  with  your  hair 
like  that!  "  Mrs.  Devereux  removed  her  bon- 
net and  its  flowing  veil  and  took  off  her  man- 
tilla. Her  dainty  girlish  form,  her  small  feet, 
her  white  hands,  gave  her  an  aristocratic  air.  It 
was  not  many  months  since  she  had  been  the 
belle  of  Dunham. 

Her  friend,  Gabriella,  was  of  quite  a  different 
build.  She  was  fashioned  on  a  Junoesque  mould 
— tall,  large,  with  rounded  bust,  full  hips,  plump 
arms.  Her  brow  was  low  and  wide,  which,  not 
being  the  fashion,  she  tried  to  remedy  by  push- 
ing back  her  hair  as  best  she  could.  This  dusky 
hair  was  somewhat  coarse.  The  eyes,  under 

4 


Mrs.  Clyde 

half-closed  lids,  were  dark,  far-seeing,  searching, 
imperious.  The  nose — straight,  fine,  small — 
was  full  of  vigour,  wit  and  arrogance.  The 
mouth — a  trifle  hard — sweetened  when  shaken 
with  laughter.  Gabriella  was  merry  enough  at 
times.  Her  teeth  were  strong  and  white. 
There  was  a  rich  bloom  on  her  cheeks.  Her 
hands  were  short  and  broad — the  hand  of  action 
— with  slightly  spatulated  finger  tips,  denoting 
the  dramatic  element.  They  seemed  to  desig- 
nate that  the  material  in  her  nature — markedly 
developed — would  still  be  tinged  with  artistic 
tendencies;  that  her  career  would  be  stirring. 
They  were  sanguine  hands,  full  of  blood,  power- 
ful at  the  wrists,  which  were  too  thick  for 
beauty.  There  was  something  positive  about 
them.  Gabriella  Dunham,  in  fact,  was  not  a 
celestial  being,  but  essentially  a  nymph  of  earth, 
eagerly  listening  for  earth's  message,  which 
made  her  glad  or  sorry  as  its  purport  might  be, 
but  which,  at  any  rate,  she  found  poignantly 
interesting. 

"  You  are  a  regular  beauty." 

Now,  the  flattery  of  those  we  envy  is  rarely 
convincing,  and  Gabriella  envied  Mrs.  Deve- 

5 


Mrs.  Clyde 

reux.  She  approached  the  mirror  and  looked 
at  herself.  "  I  did  not  suppose,"  she  said,  with 
a  half  sigh,  "  it  was  the  right  way." 

"  I  had  Monsieur  Diomede  dress  mine  for 
the  Sears's  party  last  Tuesday,  and  yours  is  bet- 
ter done.  You  are  wonderfully  clever." 

One  unconsciously  wounds  the  vanity  of 
others  by  being  their  superior,  and  Gabriella  had 
so  long  been  everybody's  superior  in  Dunham 
that  her  friend's  generous  tribute,  so  pointedly 
expressed,  was  unusual.  It  was  rather  the 
mode  to  decry  her,  and  if  the  girls  did  not  dare 
snub  her,  they  certainly  rarely  flattered  her. 
Her  father  was  mayor  of  Dunham,  universally 
respected,  an  important  member  of  a  growing 
community,  which  had  named  its  township  after 
his  family.  His  eldest  daughter  was  treated 
with  courtesy  by  the  men  who  were  under  ob- 
ligations to  him.  She  was  less  honoured  by 
the  women  who  were  unconsciously  jealous 
of  her. 

Now,  however,  the  tables  were  turned  be- 
tween these  two.  Elevated  to  the  importance 
of  the  madame,  with  a  nice  house  in  Boston,  a 
comfortable  income,  and  an  adoring  husband, 

6 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Clara,  or  Coy  Devereux,  as  she  was  called,  could 
afford  to  be  encouraging. 

"  People  always  say  I  am  so  clever."  Ga- 
briella  spoke  bitterly. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  are  a  very  accom- 
plished young  woman."  Mrs.  Devereux  was  a 
trifle  patronizing,  as  from  a  ground  of  vantage, 
not  too  remote  to  blur  detail,  but  sufficiently  so 
to  lend  leniency  to  judgment. 

"  And  of  what  use  are  my  accomplish- 
ments? "  The  girl  gave  a  listless  shrug. 

Mrs.  Devereux  adjusted  her  curls  and  patted 
her  full  skirts.  "  Don't  you  care  for  your  Tasso 
and  Dante  classes  any  more?  You  used  to  en- 
joy that  sort  of  thing.  '  Di  rose  colte  in  Para- 
diso  il  fior,'  how  prettily  you  recited  that  at  the 
last  sociable.  Then  that  horrid  bit,  don't  you 
know,  about  the  count  and  the  archbishop — I 
forget  their  names.  Oh,  yes;  Ugolino,  isn't 
it?" 

But  Gabriella  did  not  seem  to  heed.  "  Do 
you  still  go  to  the  Sears's  class?  I  thought  you 
would  give  it  up  when  you  were  married." 
Clara  had  spent  a  winter  in  the  city  before  her 
marriage. 

7 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  Well,  dear,  so  I  did.  To  be  married,  or 
out  three  seasons,  is  to  be  shelved  at  the  '  Hub; ' 
but  I  did  go  last  Tuesday,  and  some  old  chums 
took  pity  on  my  forlorn  state,  and  I  actually  got 
partners  and  danced!  My  dress  was  just  splen- 
did." 

All  listlessness  was  out  of  Gabriella's  attitude. 
Her  eyes  sharpened  under  their  arched  brows. 

"  There  were  a  lot  of  college  lads,  and  quite 
a  large  party  of  foreigners  Mrs.  Dennison  Fay 
Prentiss  brought." 

"  Foreign  ladies?  " 

"  No.  But  the  Earl  of  Dearborn,  who  is 
in  Lord  Elgin's  party.  You  know  he  is  very 
celebrated — Dearborn." 

"  The  author?  " 

"All;  everything — author,  diplomat,  man  of 
fashion  and  flirt.  Whew!  " 

"  What,  that  old  married  thing!  " 

"  In  Europe,  it  seems,  such  things  are  per- 
mitted. He  must  be  nearly  forty;  but  he  left 
his  countess  in  Washington,  and  he  was  very  po- 
lite to  all  the  girls,  and,  by  the  way,  he  is  dying 
to  see  you! " 

"  To  see  me!     Clara,  are  you  insane?  " 
8 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  Not  in  the  least!  I  talked  to  him  about 
you,  my  best  friend.  We  talked  hours  one  day 
we  made  up  a  party  to  Cambridge.  If  you  will 
come  in  next  week  and  pay  us  a  visit,  you  shall 
meet  him.  He  is  going  to  New  York,  but  re- 
turns in  a  few  days.  He  is  here  for  some  his- 
toric research  with  the  professors  over  at  the 
college.  You  know  he  is  a  man  of  learning." 

"  I  have  read  his  works." 

"  Oh,  you've  read  everything!  " 

"  Not  quite,"  said  Gabriella,  smiling. 

"  And  how  is  Perry?  " 

"  He  is  at  his  sister's  now.  He  is  sick;  he 
has  got  a  fever."  The  listlessness  returned,  en- 
veloping Gabriella  in  its  gray  shadow. 

"  Such  a  fine  man." 

"  Yes." 

"  If  he  were  my  lover,  I'd  be  proud." 

"What  about?" 

"  Why— why— " 

"  I  am  sick  of  it,  I  tell  you.  Manila  has 
ruined  him,  his  health  and  his  future.  The  cli- 
mate of  the  Phillipines  does  not  suit  him.  But 
he  will  stick  to  it;  I  know  him.  I  will  be  a 
withered  old  woman  before  we  are  married,  if  he 

9 


Mrs.  Clyde 

doesn't  die.  He  ought  to  have  been  a  lawyer; 
he  was  not  made  for  business." 

"  You,  of  all  creatures,  I  declare,  to  talk  so, 
who  carried  away  the  one  desirable  beau  of  Dun- 
ham, put  him  in  your  pocket,  and  left  us  on  the 
stalk!  How  does  he  look?  " 

"  He  has  not  grown  any  taller,  and  I  am  so 

big." 

Then  Clara  came  and  put  her  hands  on  Ga- 
briella's  shoulders.  "  Are  you  tired  of  him?  " 
she  said.  Gabriella  moved  her  eyes  away  un- 
easily, scowling. 

"  I  am  tired  of  my  life.  Why,  Clara,  I  am 
twenty-four.  At  the  sociables  here  I  am  already 
neglected." 

"  Engaged  girls  can  not  expect  to  be  belles." 

"  Well,  I  have  had  four  years  of  it.  As  soon 
as  Walter  can  crawl  he  will  go  back  to  Manila. 
He  is  bound  to  make  a  success  of  the  hemp. 
But  Heaven  knows  how  long  it  will  take,  and 
Ringletta  is  miserable  because  Ball  Crane  wants 
to  go  too.  It  is  a  craze." 

"  Are  they  engaged?  " 

"  I  think  there  is  an  understanding.  We 
won't  have  any  men  left,  except  Mr.  Clyde." 

10 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  He  was  not  cut  out  for  adventure."  Mrs. 
Devereux  laughed. 

"  Well,  hardly.  A  man  of  fifty,  and  his  old 
mother  so  dilapidated  and  hanging  upon  him. 
He  will  die  at  his  old  desk;  but  they  say  he  is 
making  millions.  Are  you  happy,  Clara?  " 

"Yes;  absolutely  contented." 

"  That  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  hear  a  young 
wife  say,"  a  voice  spoke  from  the  threshold. 

"  Aunt  Laura!  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you." 
Mrs.  Dunham  was  not  Clara's  aunt,  but  an  in- 
timacy in  the  families  had  resulted  in  this  appel- 
lation. 

She  was  a  short  person,  in  a  brown  alpaca 
gown,  with  a  black  silk  apron.  She  wore  a  scarf 
of  black  lace  on  the  top  of  her  head  and  a  white 
knitted  woollen  shawl  across  her  shoulders. 
Her  wide,  spotless  linen  collar  was  fastened  by 
a  large  brooch.  It  bore  the  painted  head  of  a 
child — the  likeness  of  her  dead  son,  who  had 
died  before  the  daughters  were  born,  many  years 
ago.  He  was  now  a  sweet  and  tender  memory; 
no  longer  a  grievous  one.  Her  face  was  at 
once  gentle  and  inflexible.  One  felt  that  her 
standards  were  high  and  even  noble,  but  that 

ii 


Mrs.  Clyde 

had  they  been  low  it  would  make  no  difference; 
she  would  for  ever  remain  a  law  unto  herself, 
complacent.  She  had  the  self-assurance  of  the 
woman  who  rules  absolutely  her  own  small 
world;  who  is  deemed  strong  because  she  wields 
sovereignity  over  her  own  immediate  com- 
munity. A  life  of  seclusion  engenders  a  form 
of  conceit,  of  which  the  storm  and  stress  of  the 
outside  world  make  havoc.  She  was  serious, 
but  not  sad;  her  heart  had,  in  fact,  never  been 
wrung.  At  her  son's  death,  the  pervading 
sense  of  how  beautifully  she  bore  the  trial  sus- 
tained her.  From  this  lofty  plane  she  received 
condolence.  There  had  been  grieving,  but  no 
anguish.  Her  self-appreciation  was  too  intact 
for  despair.  She  was  not  worldly,  because,  hav- 
ing little  imagination,  she  did  not  know  what 
worldly  emoluments  could  mean.  She  had, 
therefore,  looked  with  some  solicitude  upon 
Clara's  marriage.  Mr.  Devereux  was  a  wid- 
ower, and  fifteen  years  older  than  his  wife.  To 
her  old-fashioned  prejudice  these  objections 
were  hardly  outweighed  by  the  Boston  home 
and  handsome  income.  To  Gabriella  the  house 
and  income  seemed  to  balance  the  scales  on 
12 


Mrs.  Clyde 

which   woman   weighs   the   pros   and   cons   of 
matrimonial  venture. 

Mrs.  Dunham  thought  a  boy  and  girl  should 
begin  life  together,  mutual  helpers  to  a  common 
welfare.  If  the  man  wore  homespun,  and  the 
girl  a  sunbonnet,  it  was  all  the  more  romantic. 
She  had  thus  started  upon  her  own  course,  full 
of  hope  and  dignity.  She  was  romantic;  she 
had  married  for  love. 

"  Dear  Aunt  Laura,  I  am  happy."  They 
kissed. 

"  I  wish  Gabriella  was  as  safely  settled,"  said 
Gabriella's  mother.  "  We  hope  next  year  .  .  . 
The  mills  are  doing  nicely  .  .  .  perhaps  her 
papa  .  .  ." 

Gabriella  shook  her  head.  "  Walter  won't 
take  a  penny  with  me,"  she  said. 

"  He  is  a  very  fine  young  man,"  said  her 
mother,  "  and  has  the  proper  feeling." 

Gabriella  remained  silent.  After  a  few 
words  of  admonition  to  the  young  people  to  be 
punctual  at  supper,  which  would  be  ready  at 
six,  Mrs.  Dunham  left  them. 

'  Tell  me  more  about  Boston,"  said  Ga- 
briella. 

2  13 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  Why,  there  is  not  much  to  tell.  The  gen- 
tlemen all  drove  out  to  Ovid  Train's,  at  Jamaica 
Plain,  on  Saturday,  and  some  of  them  got 
drunk." 

"  Coy,  how  dreadful! "  Yet  there  was  a 
horrible  attraction  to  Gabriella  in  this  license. 
A  sort  of  atmosphere  of  liberty,  expressed  in 
Clara's  words  filled  the  quiet  room  with  fevered 
dreams. 

"  Well,  my  husband  did  not — that  is  the 
important.  Mr.  Train  is  just  in  with  his 
packet,  and  has  brought  the  loveliest  things! 
Embroideries,  perfumes,  a  carved  ivory  desk, 
fit  for  an  empress;  and  dear  Charles  says 
he  will  buy  it  for  me,  if  Train  will  sell 
it." 

"  And  do  you  already  know  Mrs.  Dennison 
Fay  Prentiss  and  visit  at  her  house?  "  asked 
Gabriella  with  wide  eyes. 

"  Of  course.  Why  should  I  not,  when  her 
house  was  always  open  to  Charles? "  Clara's 
disingenuousness  passed  unquestioned;  she  had 
not  yet  been  to  Mrs.  Prentiss's  house. 

"  Do  they  live  very  elegantly?  " 

"  Oh,  yes!     The  house  is  perfect.     If  you 


Mrs.  Clyde 

come,  I  think  I  can  get  you  asked  there.  She 
gives  dinner  parties." 

"  I'll  come." 

"  Have  you  a  nice  dress?  " 

"  Would  my  taffeta  do?  " 

"  Hardly." 

"  I  will  ask  mother  about  a  new  one." 

The  tea  bell  rang  through  the  house.  The 
table  was  set  with  cold  ham,  two  mince  pies  as 
side  dishes,  preserves  in  saucers  at  each  plate, 
doughnuts  and  apples  in  plated  baskets.  Mrs. 
Dunham  poured  the  tea;  Mr.  Dunham  carved 
the  ham.  Ellen  bore  in  hot  biscuits,  which  she 
dispensed. 

The  host  was  a  tall,  spare  man,  dressed  in 
broadcloth;  he  always  put  on  a  black  suit  in  the 
evening  as  a  compliment  to  his  women.  He 
had  small,  kindly  gray  eyes,  a  handsome  aquiline 
nose,  lips  full  of  beneficence  and  wisdom,  and 
the  bloom  of  yesterday's  youth  lingered  on  his 
face.  Philosophic,  scholarly,  he  was  a  pillar  of 
the  Unitarian  church,  whose  tenets  he  vaguely 
held  in  a  spiritual  compromise  between  himself 
and  conscience.  Beliefs  he  considered  of  little 
moment,  and  the  intellectual  doubts  which  are 

15 


Mrs.  Clyde 

to  many  an  agony  were  to  him  things  to  be 
brushed  aside  as  lightly  as  the  buzz  and  sting 
of  an  unwelcome  insect.  He  accepted  the  im- 
mortality of  the  soul.  Minor  dogmas  were  the 
playthings  of  children  and,  as  such,  robbed  of 
absurdity.  His  calm  presence,  devoid  of  all  self- 
assertion,  commanded  respect.  He  loved  his 
wife  and  children  with  a  vast  indulgence,  and 
yielded  to  them  in  all  small  matters.  To  con- 
sult their  wishes  and  pleasures  was  the  unwritten 
vade  mecum  of  his  conduct.  He  owed  no  man 
anything,  was  just  in  his  dealings,  sane  in  his 
judgments.  He  had  never  been  heard  to  utter 
an  angry  word.  All  men  know  provocation; 
not  all  temptation.  The  solicitations  which  sap 
and  desiccate,  the  storms  which  uproot  and  de- 
stroy, the  passions  which  devastate  the  human 
soul  passed  beneath,  above,  around  him,  like 
noisome  vapours;  they  never  touched  him. 
His  sorrow  for  his  boy  had  been  deep,  but  not 
irremediable.  He  had  a  pagan  serenity.  He 
hoped  to  meet  him  in  those  Elysian  fields  where 
innocence  and  experience  shall  clasp  hands  in 
everlasting  union.  He  could  afford  to  wait. 
He  had  a  firm  conviction  that  somewhere  under- 

16 


Mrs.  Clyde 

neath  were  the  "  everlasting  arms."  Time  and 
space  were  insignificant.  To  this  healthful  phi- 
losophy he  joined  much  practical  goodness;  an 
ability  which,  if  it  had  not  secured  the  brilliant 
gifts  of  fortune,  had  removed  him  from  its  tor- 
turing cares.  He  had  made,  through  his  own 
exertions,  a  comfortable  competence.  He  had 
never  been  to  college,  but  he  would  have 
shamed  many  professors  of  dead  tongues  with 
his  ready  knowledge  of  the  classics.  At  four- 
teen he  had  swept  out  his  father's  store  and 
had  studied  Greek  and  Latin  late  into  the  nights. 
At  fifty  he  did  not  sweep  any  more,  but  he  still 
studied.  He  read  French  and  Spanish.  He 
spoke  the  first  well,  having  made  friends  with  a 
French  refugee  to  perfect  his  accent.  He  had 
a  graceful,  almost  childlike  humour,  which  leav- 
ened the  earnestness  of  his  life,  and  lent  its  light- 
ening influence  to  the  grave  purposes  and  occu- 
pations of  manhood.  He  sometimes  spoke 
French  with  Gabriella  while  she  washed  the  cups 
and  saucers  after  supper. 

The  girls  took  turns  in  this  office.  Mrs. 
Dunham  usually  dismissed  the  single  servant 
with  the  words:  "You  can  have  your  even- 

17 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ing;  we  will  see  to  the  table.  It  is  Lydian's 
night." 

Ellen  was  a  Yankee,  who  called  all  the  girls 
by  their  Christian  names.  She  was  treated  with 
extreme  consideration,  as  one  would  treat  a  dis- 
tant relative,  tenacious  of  right,  whose  temper 
might  be  umbrageous. 

She  and  the  horse  were  less  for  service  than 
for  "  help."  She  was,  in  fact,  called  the  "  help." 
Only  two  persons  ever  entered  the  carry-all  at 
once,  lest  the  horse  should  be  overstrained.  If 
there  was  a  third,  he  or  she  tramped  to  the 
station. 

The  girls  did  housework  with  their  mother 
in  the  morning,  but  the  afternoons  were  devoted 
to  intellectual  pursuits,  in  which  Mrs.  Dunham 
took  diligent  lead,  less  through  taste  than  from 
a  sense  of  duty.  She  was  said  to  have  the  "  fac- 
ulty " — a  term  expressive  of  some  peculiar  and 
perplexing  form  of  capability  which  made  cer- 
tain housewives  famous  in  Dunham  for  the  mul- 
tiplicity of  their  occupations  and  the  magnitude 
of  their  performance.  It  must  be  acknowledged 
that  at  these  afternoon  symposiums  Mrs.  Dun- 
ham was  sometimes  a  trifle  distracted  by  molest- 

18 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ing  fears.  What  if  the  tea-biscuits  should  not 
rise  while  free  from  the  vigilance  of  her  watch- 
ful eye!  What  if  the  pies  should  burn  to  a 
crisp!  Notwithstanding  these  appeals  from  the 
cuisine,  she  never  flagged  from  her  self-imposed 
task.  To  such  of  her  daughters  as  had  done 
with  schooling,  she  forced  herself  to  comment 
on  Tacitus,  to  spell  out  Virgil,  or  to  close  her 
eyes  in  profound  patience  while  Lydian  recited, 
in  lighter  moments,  from  Mrs.  Hemans's  poems, 
or  Gabriella  read  aloud  a  new  essay  of  the 
Dial's. 

In  this  house  of  virtue,  prosperity  and  hon- 
our, an  element  of  discord  had,  however,  already 
crept.  It  harboured  an  insurgent,  ready  to 
spring,  crouching,  awaiting  opportunity,  willing 
to  die  or  escape  this  thraldom.  The  strength 
of  the  parents  had  surely  descended  to  their  pro- 
geny. In  one,  at  least,  their  energy  meant  not 
peace,  but  revolt. 


CHAPTER    II 

GABRIELLA  was  this  rebel.  Dunham  is  to- 
day a  fine  place,  having  grown  with  a  rapidity 
known  only  to  American  history.  Her  vacant 
areas  of  waste  land  have  been  built  up  in  two 
generations  into  a  populous  and  splendid  city. 
The  swift  river  which  crosses  the  town  has 
granted  its  natural  resources  to  the  inventive  in- 
dustry of  the  robust  Puritan.  To-day  Dun- 
ham's real  estate  values  and  personal  property 
lie  in  the  millions;  her  population  has  reached 
the  seventy-five  thousand  mark.  She  is  one  of 
the  famous  mill  towns  of  the  Eastern  world, 
which  decks  itself  in  the  textile  fabrics  of  her 
weaving.  A  protective  tariff  has  permitted  her 
to  develop  her  powers.  To-day  her  bells  toll, 
her  flags  fly,  her  traffic  moves,  her  orators  de- 
claim, her  products  are  distributed,  her  street 
bands  play,  her  banks  give  out  gold,  her  engines 
snort  in  the  view  of  a  wide  audience. 
20 


Mrs.  Clyde 

When  Gabriella  was  a  girl  the  town  was 
far  less  important.  To  her  impatience,  it 
seemed  stagnant.  She  was  too  young  to  ap- 
preciate the  first  throbs  and  sighs,  the  stretch- 
ings and  muscular  contortions  of  the  infant 
giant.  It  is  the  starved  side  of  rugged  natures 
which  produces  good  work.  Obstacles  are  in- 
centives. This  Gabriella  was  too  young  to  dis- 
cern. To  her  the  fact  that  Dunham  was  daily, 
slowly  growing  apace  was  meaningless;  she  did 
not  see  that  she  was  a  part  of  this  vast  machinery 
and  of  this  progress,  and  drink  refection  at  the 
spring  of  such  knowledge.  She  remained  cold 
before  the  promise  of  a  Darwin;  a  Galileo's  e  pur 
si  muova,  rich  contribution  to  a  slumbrous 
world,  left  her  of  ice.  However,  the  doctrines 
of  evolution  may  enrapture  its  discoverers,  they 
will  always  seem  a  trifle  pale  to  the  individual 
pulsations  of  a  maiden's  heart  beating  for  life. 

The  self-hood  in  the  girl — which  was  of  no 
mean  proportion — panted  for  expansion,  and  if 
her  father,  nearing  the  goal,  could  solace  him- 
self with  the  reflection  that  in  the  Elysian  fields 
he  would  meet,  not  alone  his  lost  son,  but  such 
of  the  comrades  of  high  thought  and  sublime 
21 


Mrs.  Clyde 

disposition  as  he  had  missed  on  earth,  Gabriella 
desired  her  Elysian  fields  immediately.  She  felt 
ready  to  hang  herself  on  vain  delusion  and  silly 
promises. 

Her  spirituality  was  not  salient,  and  her 
philosophy  was  overtaxed.  She  was  weary  of 
listening  to  dance  music  trilling  a  measure  she 
wished  to  tread  herself.  Her  parents,  in  their 
sagacity,  always  advised  the  investing  of  capital. 
They  were  wont  to  quote  the  well-known  adage, 
that  you  can  not  have  your  cake  and  eat  it  too, 
and  therefore  counselled  the  saving  of  the  cake. 
Prompted  by  this  exhortation,  when  still  a  very 
young  child,  taking  tea  one  evening  with  a 
schoolmate,  Gabriella  had  heaped  about  her 
plate  several  little  toothsome  jumbles,  of  which 
she  was  exceedingly  fond,  intending,  while  she 
sipped  the  acrid  Oolong,  which  she  disliked,  to 
eat  them  at  her  leisure.  She  had  even  hoped  to 
slip  one  unobserved  into  her  pocket,  and  thus 
prolong  the  feast.  Alas,  for  human  planning! 

"  I  see  you  don't  like  our  cakes,"  said  the 
little  friend,  who  sat  beside  her.  "  I  guess  I  do, 
so  I  will  eat  them  for  you."  Thus  speaking,  she 
fell  upon  and  devoured  at  one  fell  gulp  Gabri- 

22 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ella's  hoard.  It  was  characteristic  of  Gabriella 
that  in  her  disappointment  she  did  not  feel  angry 
at  her  friend.  She  thought  it  quite  natural  that 
people  should  want  cake,  their's  or  another's, 
and  she  blamed  only  her  own  stupidity.  She 
rather  admired  her  school-fellow's  craft,  and  de- 
cided thereafter  to  follow  her  methods.  She  had 
once  reproached  her  sister  Lydian  and  called  her 
"  real  mean  "  because  she  had  only  granted  her 
eighteen  bites  out  of  an  apple.  It  is  probable 
that  had  Lydian  refused  any  bites  she  would 
have  respected  her  more.  These  lessons  sank 
into  the  clever  child's  mind  and  bore  fruit.  She 
began  to  think  that,  in  some  things,  her  parents 
might  be  mistaken.  She  wanted  cakes  and  she 
must  have  them! 

She  liked  to  read  such  works  of  fiction  as 
dwelt  on  large,  successful  experience.  She 
vaguely  felt  that  fiction  alone  is  true  biography. 
The  average  biography  is  valueless  because  it 
deals  but  in  data  and  facts.  The  novel,  which 
furnishes  impulse  and  motive,  is  turned  to  with 
avidity  by  the  young.  Data  and  facts  are  mere 
repetition — similar  in  all  lives — whose  hidden 
import  remains  unrecorded.  Men  in  the  fury 
23 


Mrs.  Clyde 

of  religious  passion  rarely  follow  tradition.  She 
was  tired  of  temporists.  She  looked  upon  her 
lover's  mild  routine  of  labour  with  a  sentiment 
of  contempt. 

"Another  year,  and  I  claim  you,"  he  had 
said,  as  he  came  back  and  forth  patiently  from 
his  voyages  to  the  East  Indian  Islands. 

There  were  moments  when  her  poor  little 
love  affair  looked  very  forlorn  to  her;  it  looked 
unusually  so  as  she  tripped  up  the  steps  of  her 
friend's  mansion  in  Upper  Bowdoin  Street,  on 
the  last  day  of  November,  with  her  modest  lug- 
gage at  her  heels. 

The  house  was  not  large,  nor  was  it  in  any 
sense  imposing;  but  it  was  pretty,  bright,  fresh- 
ly painted.  The  maid  who  opened  the  door  was 
neatly  dressed,  and  ushered  Gabriella  into  her 
friend's  drawing-room  with  a  ceremonious  re- 
spectfulness which  impressed  Gabriella,  accus- 
tomed as  she  was  to  Ellen's  red-armed  and  easy 
familiarities.  The  domestics  in  the  Boston 
young  ladies'  school,  where  she  had  finished  her 
education,  had  been  hardly  more  distinguished 
for  amenity  than  the  scant  "  help  "  of  Dunham. 
A  delicious  sense  of  emancipation  from  her  past, 

24 


Mrs.  Clyde 

a  prophetic  insight  into  a  future  big  with  possi- 
bility, filled  her  as  she  seated  herself  in  a  cush- 
ioned corner  to  wait  for  her  hastily-summoned 
friend. 

Now,  this  friend  was  far  less  happy  than 
her  guest.  She  was,  in  fact,  greatly  worried  and 
distraught.  The  ante-Christmas  festivities  were 
all  announced — nay,  the  invitations  for  two  or 
three  of  them  were  on  her  table,  but  no  card  had 
as  yet  arrived  for  Mrs.  Dennison  Fay  Prentiss's 
long-talked-of  musicale.  Now,  this  was  bitter 
enough  to  bear  alone,  but  the  idea  of  revealing 
the  fact  to  Gabriella  Dunham  filled  her  with 
mortification.  Day  by  day,  hour  by  hour,  the 
apprehension  that  she  was  not  to  be  asked 
to  this  party  of  parties,  given  in  honour  of 
Lord  Elgin,  at  which  all  the  best  people  were  to 
be  present,  had  developed  into  a  certainty.  In 
vain  she  had  sounded  her  husband  as  to  why  and 
wherefore  a  lady  who  had  called  upon  her — yes, 
once — a  card  had  been  deposited  by  a  footman 
— it  lay  uppermost  in  the  coupe  on  the  hall  ped- 
estal— should  repudiate  the  old  friendliness  ex- 
tended to  his  widowed  days,  and  leave  him  and 
his  new  young  wife  out  of  her  list.  He  had  met 

25 


Mrs.  Clyde 

her  exclamations  of  surprise,  her  daily  increasing 
anxiety,  with  an  exasperating  male  vagueness, 
which  aroused  her  resentment  against,  not  only 
Mrs.  Prentiss,  but  himself. 

What  was  a  husband  worth,  an  assured  in- 
come, a  comfortable  house  in  one  of  the  best 
streets  in  the  universe,  if  she  were  to  be  left 
at  home  on  this  night  of  nights — alone,  pining, 
humiliated,  undone?  And  before  her  friend! 
Some  of  her  new  acquaintances  had  paraded 
their  cards  with  insolent  assurance,  dangling  be- 
fore her  thirsting  soul  the  full  cup  of  their  secur- 
ity. The  invitations  had  been  out  a  fortnight; 
there  were  now  only  six  days  left.  She  was  ex- 
tremely distant  to  her  husband;  she  hardly 
spoke  to  him.  She  felt  that  had  he  had  the 
right  spirit,  he  would  have  seen  to  it  that  she 
was  protected  from  insult.  Perhaps  he  was  a 
poor,  feeble  creature  after  all;  he  was  certainly 
much  older  than  herself.  She  examined  his  legs 
critically  as  he  crept  downstairs  to  his  breakfast, 
crushed  by  her  frigidity,  and  decided  that  he 
would  soon  be  infirm,  invalided,  and  she  a  nurse. 

She  sighed,  and  decided  that  come  what 
might,  she  would  be  dutiful.  She  began  to  pity 

26 


Mrs.  Clyde 

him  and  to  address  him  in  the  voice  which  we 
use  for  invalids  and  for  people  who  are  a  trifle 
deaf.  She  had  made  her  bed,  and  she  must  lie 
on  it;  its  hardness  must  be  accepted. 

He,  poor  fellow,  ate  his  meal  in  silence,  ab- 
sorbing his  mush  and  milk  and  pork  and  beans 
with  a  piteous  longing  for  some  of  the  sweet 
smiling  which  had  been  wont  to  beguile  the 
early  hours  of  day.  He  was  very  much  in  love 
with  his  wife.  She  answered  these  advances 
with  a  forced  gentleness;  she  even  resignedly 
offered  to  get  a  shawl  for  him  one  morning,  if  he 
was  cold,  suggesting  rheumatism.  But  when 
he  tried  to  possess  himself  of  her  hand,  she 
evaded  him,  murmuring  something  unintelligi- 
ble about  that  sort  of  thing  being  "  over."  He 
went  to  his  office  wondering  in  what  way  he  had 
offended,  profoundly  miserable.  He  had  for- 
gotten all  about  the  soiree.  She  had  ceased  to 
speak  of  it.  There  are  dilemmas  in  which 
speech  is  unavailable.  And  Gabriella  coming  on 
the  morrow!  How  should  she  meet  her?  She 
thought  of  writing  to  postpone  her  visit,  of 
feigning  indisposition,  of  taking  a  journey  to  see 
some  distant  relatives,  but  all  these  pretexts 

27 


Mrs.  Clyde 

crumbled  before  the  lingering  hope  that  some 
chance  of  fortune,  some  trick  of  fate,  would  yet 
bring  to  her  the  hoped-for  summons. 

If  Charles  had  forgotten,  so  had  Mrs.  Pren- 
tiss.  She  had  never  cared  much  for  the  plod- 
ding, stolid  man,  who  had  merely  filled  a  niche 
in  her  popular  salon,  because  he  was  unencum- 
bered and  good-natured.  By  some  oversight 
his  young  wife's  name  had  not  been  inscribed 
upon  her  books.  It  is  certain  had  she  known 
the  unhappiness  she  was  inflicting,  being  an  ami- 
able person,  that  she  would  have  sent  the  note 
to  the  "  little  country  girl  "  whom  Charlie  Dev- 
ereux  had  fallen  in  love  with  and  married. 

It  was  Mrs.  Devereux's  hope  when  she  met 
and  embraced  Gabriella  that  no  allusion  would 
be  made  to  the  impending  function.  When  she 
felt  the  girl's  strong  arms  about  her,  and  her 
hearty  kiss  of  greeting,  a  sudden  rush  of  home- 
sickness seized  her.  She  longed  to  fall  upon  the 
breast  of  her  tall  friend,  pour  forth  the  hideous 
truth  and  be  at  once  shamed  and  comforted. 
But  Clara,  although  very  human,  and  a  woman 
to  the  core,  was  still  a  daughter  of  the  Puritans. 
She  therefore  gulped  down  the  rising  sob, 
28 


Mrs.  Clyde 

whisked  away  the  moisture  from  her  eyelids, 
strangled  her  emotion,  and  met  Miss  Dunham 
with  apparent  unconcern. 

The  Devereuxs  dined  at  two  o'clock  and 
supped  at  half-past  six,  as  was  the  custom  of 
those  days.  Mrs.  Dennison  Fay  Prentiss  was 
the  only  lady  in  Boston  who  dined  at  six  and 
had  men  servants,  and  her  habits  and  hours  were 
the  topic  of  many  an  awed  conclave.  Mrs.  Dev- 
ereux  was  somewhat  calmed  by  the  fact  that 
Gabriella,  by  some  miraculous  intervention  of 
the  deities,  did  not  mention  the  subject  she  so 
dreaded.  Charles  grew  happier  because  his 
darling  became  kinder  to  him.  She  had  vouch- 
safed to  touch  his  forehead  with  her  hand  in 
passing,  as  he  lay  stretched  in  his  arm-chair — 
warming  his  feet  and  reading  his  newspaper 
after  supper.  It  was  then  that  the  door  bell 
announced  a  visitor. 

Evening  visitors  were  rare,  but  not,  as  in 
modern  times,  unheard  of.  The  evening,  not 
the  afternoon,  was  the  hour  of  relaxation,  and 
at  a  time  when  dinner  parties  were  infrequent, 
the  male  friend  or  admirer  would  come,  after 
supper,  to  the  social  tryst. 
3  29 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Gabriella  had  gone  up  to  her  room  to  write 
a  letter  to  her  mother,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dev- 
ereux  were  alone. 

"  It  is  Lord  Dearborn,  ma'am,"  announced 
the  maid,  opening  the  drawing-room  door. 

It  is  to  be  supposed  that  before  he  threw 
Mrs.  Devereux's  number  to  his  driver,  Dear- 
born had  exhausted  all  the  resources  that  the 
provincial  Boston  of  those  days  offered  him. 
He  had  in  one  short  week  been  dined  by  friends 
at  the  Tremont;  had  smoked  and  drunk  sherry 
at  the  Somerset  Club  with  the  wits  of  the  hour; 
had  attended  a  dance  at  Papanti's,  where  he  had 
looked  in  vain  for  the  gay  matrons  who  were  his 
most  willing  allies  in  Europe,  and  had  found 
nothing  better  than  strictly  virtuous  mothers 
and  bread-and-butter  lassies;  he  had  wearily  lis- 
tened to  the  songs  at  the  music  hall,  and  had 
even  been  dragged  an  unwilling  victim  to  a  "  re- 
hearsal." He  had  visited  the  Howard  Athe- 
naeum, where  he  found  a  moment's  solace  in 
flirting  with  a  popular  actress  in  the  coulisse. 
There  seemed  to  be  nothing  left  for  him  to  do; 
if  there  had  been  the  earl  would  have  done  it. 
He  had  sunk  into  the  last  stages  of  boredom. 
30 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Even  his  friend  Mrs.  Dennison  Fay  Prentiss  had 
left  him  to  shift  for  himself.  She  was  playing 
whist  at  the  Winthrops's,  whose  house  adjoined 
hers  on  Pemberton  Square.  Thus,  he  had  sud- 
denly remembered  Mrs.  Devereux's  falteringly 
given  address,  and  the  pretty  crisp,  nasal  Eng- 
lish in  which  she  had  said  "  I  shall  be  pleased  if 
you  would  call  some  evening."  A  young  mar- 
ried lady,  graceful,  nicely  dressed,  passably  edu- 
cated, who  blushed  when  he  spoke  to  her;  who 
did  not  comprehend  any  of  his  doubles  entendres, 
and,  therefore,  frankly  laughed  at  them;  who 
had  a  charming  camaraderie;  who  showed  a  row 
of  very  white  teeth  as  she  asked  him  questions 
of  such  extravagant  ingenuousness  that  he  had 
to  gaze  into  her  candid  eyes  to  make  sure  that 
she  was  not  laughing  at  him;  who  overflowed 
with  vivacity,  and  yet  was  so  unmistakably 
"  honest,"  as  the  French  have  it,  was  a  new 
sensation.  The  earl  was  fond  of  new  sensa- 
tions. 

He  had  thought  of  the  little  lady  several 
times  since  their  two  meetings,  when  it  had 
amused  him  to  single  her  out  for  special  atten- 
tions. Her  reception  of  these  as  a  right,  her 


Mrs.  Clyde 

entire  absence  of  reverence  for  his  person  and 
his  rank,  while  at  the  same  time  she  expressed 
appreciation  of  his  intellectual  prowess,  whose 
feats,  to  his  surprise,  were  not  unknown  to 
her,  amused  this  man  of  the  world.  He  had 
therefore  decided  to  see  her  again.  This  de- 
cision was  not  upheld  by  any  of  the  incitements 
which  drew  him  usually  to  feminine  commerce. 
Mrs.  Devereux  appealed  about  as  much 
to  his  imagination  or  his  senses  as  would 
a  lively  kitten  full  of  harmless  trick  and 
wile. 

The  men  shook  hands,  and  Charles  threw 
away  his  paper;  but,  never  a  conversationalist, 
there  was  something  in  Dearborn's  personality 
which  seemed  to  make  him  peculiarly  awkward 
of  speech.  He  soon  found  himself  crowded  out 
from  an  animated  tete-a-tete  between  his  wife 
and  the  Englishman.  With  the  American  hus- 
band's conviction  that  his  wife  should  do  the  en- 
tertaining, in  twenty  minutes  he  had  excused 
himself  on  the  plea  of  a  call  he  must  make  to  a 
business  acquaintance,  and  Mrs.  Devereux  and 
her  visitor  were  left  alone. 

The  door  had  hardly  closed  upon  him  when 
32 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Dearborn  asked  the  question  which  Mrs.  Deve- 
reux  so  feared.  Now,  Gabriella's  "  chamber,"  as 
Mrs.  Devereux  would  have  called  it,  was  directly 
over  the  drawing-room,  and  as  he  asked  the 
question  Mrs.  Devereux  heard  the  young  lady's 
chair  pushed  from  the  table,  where  she  was 
writing;  heard  her  step  toward  the  dressing- 
table,  doubtless  to  smooth  a  recreant  lock  of 
hair,  and  then  lightly  and  firmly  advance  in  the 
direction  of  the  stairs.  Her  letter  was  written! 
She  was  coming!  In  half  a  moment  she  would 
be  upon  them;  in  less  than  a  moment  she  would 
know  all. 

"  We  are  not  invited,"  said  Mrs.  Devereux, 
with  a  burning  blush.  It  was  over!  Not  so 
terrible  after  all!  It  was  easier  to  tell  a  man 
than  a  woman,  less  galling;  easier  a  foreigner, 
who  would  go  back  to  England  and  forget  the 
ignominy  of  it  all  in  weightier  concerns.  At 
any  rate,  the  die  was  cast. 

"  It  is  surely  a  mistake,"  said  the  diplomat 
gravely  and  quietly,  with  no  exclamatory  or 

wounding  astonishment — "  a  mistake  that " 

Before  he  finished  his  sentence  there  was  a 
flutter  at  the  door — Gabriella  entered.  He 

33 


Mrs.  Clyde 

rose  and   bowed  as   Mrs.    Devereux   presented 
them. 

The  girl  down  at  Dunham  had  called  him  an 
"  old  married  thing."  Somehow,  as  she  glanced 
at  him  now,  she  felt  that  the  description  was 
hardly  adequate. 


34 


CHAPTER    III 

"  THIS  is  Miss  Dunham.  I  told  you  about 
her,"  said  Mrs.  Devereux. 

"  I  remember  perfectly,"  said  the  earl,  who 
did  not  remember  in  the  least. 

Gabriella's  father  was  a  gentleman,  if  clean 
hands  and  a  pure  heart,  a  cultured  brain,  respect 
for  woman's  weakness,  uprightness  in  affairs, 
lofty  thoughts  and  courtesy  of  manner  are 
enough:  her  lover  was  one,  if  chivalry,  integrity, 
disinterestedness,  bravery  are  enough.  Mr. 
Crane,  the  Episcopal  clergyman  of  Dunham, 
the  father  of  Ringletta's  friend,  Ball  Crane,  was 
a  gentleman,  if  studiousness,  abstemiousness, 
philanthropy,  meditation  and  spiritual  virtues 
are  enough.  And  there  were  others.  Charlie 
Devereux  in  all  his  blunt  simplicity  was  yet  no 
boor.  The  men  whom  she  had  known  might  be 
plain;  they  were  in  no  wise  rude.  The  New 
Englander  who  in  New  York  to-day  is  called 

35 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  self-made  "  is  often  the  descendant  of  a  refined 
and  gentle  ancestry.  He  is  not,  like  the  self- 
made  man  of  the  Empire  State,  grown  into  the 
railroad  magnate  or  bank  president,  the  son  of 
immigrants,  whose  father  could  not  spell  and 
whose  mother  was  illiterate. 

Gabriella,  therefore,  had  lived  with  gentle- 
men; but  if  there  were  any  men  like  the  earl  in 
America,  and  it  is  possible  that  there  were,  she 
had  not  seen  them.  He  was  not,  strictly  speak- 
ing, handsome,  nor  had  he  that  perfection  of 
physical  robustness,  high  colouring  and  health 
which  one  expects  from  his  race  and  class. 
Nevertheless,  in  grace  and  ease,  speech  and  ac- 
coutrement, he  seemed  to  Gabriella  a  very 
flower  of  the  world.  Of  that  world  which 
haunted  all  her  dreams  Lord  Dearborn  was  the 
epitome;  and  if  the  flesh  and  the  devil  were  not 
far  distant,  who  shall  say  that  it  was  not  to  their 
assistance  that  he  owed  the  peculiar  shiver  of 
expectancy  that  shook  Gabriella  at  his  saluta- 
tion. He  met  the  anxious  glance  of  her  dark 
eye  as  it  fell  full  into  his  own  with  a  curious 
sense  of  discomfort,  for,  strangely  enough,  this 
rather  dazzling  young  person,  so  unexpectedly 

36 


Mrs.  Clyde 

encountered,  made  him  feel  that  she  was  judg- 
ing him.  Dazzling,  he  certainly  thought  her, 
brilliantly  handsome  and  most  desirable.  She 
was  dressed  very  simply  in  black,  but  she  had 
passed  a  scarlet  ribbon  through  her  braids,  while 
the  same  warm  tint  showed  at  her  throat. 

"  La  belle  Hamilton,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"and  here  in  Yankeeland!  "  A  little  Yankee 
girl  from  a  manufacturing  village!  It  seemed 
absurdly  incongruous. 

Gabriella  knew  her  dress  becoming,  which 
gave  her  repose.  Her  hands  were  cold,  and  her 
blood  rose  to  her  cheeks  in  two  bright  spots,  but 
her  manner  was  composed,  without  undue  bold- 
ness. 

Dearborn  recovered  from  his  momentary 
embarrassment,  and  the  three  fell  into  pleasant 
talk.  Nettled  at  the  newcomer's  attitude  of  in- 
difference, the  earl  determined  to  display  for 
these  two  obscure  young  women  all  the  gifts, 
graces  and  fascinations,  in  which  he  was  already 
so  proficient  and  for  which  he  has  since  become 
so  justly  celebrated.  He  told  them  things, 
which  electrified  their  imaginations,  of  the 
strange,  foreign  countries  he  had  visited,  of  ad- 

37 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ventures  by  sea  and  land,  yet  was  never  verbose 
or  egotistical.  He  charmed  them  with  the  fine 
point  of  his  raillery  and  wit,  astonished  them 
with  his  eloquence,  then  suddenly  became  collo- 
quial, made  them  shine  in  their  turn,  flattered 
them  wjth  caressing  questions,  threw  in  now 
and  again  an  earnest  compliment,  in  which  there 
lurked  a  touch  of  feeling;  and  all  the  time  Ga- 
briella  knew,  as  women  know,  all-inexperienced 
though  they  be,  that  it  was  all  for  her.  When 
he  rose  to  take  his  leave  she  was  filled  with  sup- 
pressed excitement,  and  the  hand  which  she 
gave  him  for  a  moment  was  so  tremulous  that 
the  man  noticed  it  with  fatuous  amusement. 
Dearborn  was  a  libertine.  He  had  already 
sworn  to  whistle  to  this  splendid  bird,  capture 
and  make  it  his  own.  He  had  not  missed  the 
effect  upon  her  of  a  single  one  of  his  words. 
He  had  already  guessed  and  fathomed  her  ambi- 
tions, wondering  how  best  he  could  pander  to 
them.  He  always  appealed  to  the  worst  side  of 
women's  natures;  it  was  the  quicker  way  he 
thought — and  fancied  he  had  solved  the  riddle 
when  he  bowed  his  low  good-night. 

"  It  is  surely  a  mistake  about  Mrs.  Prentiss," 
38 


Mrs.  Clyde 

he  whispered  in  farewell  to  his  hostess — "  a  mis- 
take a  word  can  rectify."  The  look  of  enrap- 
tured gratitude  which  Clara  gave  him  revealed 
to  him  what  she  had  suffered,  and  that  these 
two  pretty  women  should  owe  to  him  a  service 
gave  him  an  agreeable  titillation  of  vanity.  A 
more  decided  satisfaction  swept  his  conscious- 
ness as  he  once  more  turned  to  Gabriella  with  a 
last  look  of  admiration,  which  she  received  a 
little  defiantly. 

"  Ce  n'est  pas  la  premiere  venue,  c'est  une  per- 
sonne,"  he  said  to  himself  as  the  door  closed 
upon  him.  He  had  been  at  school  in  Paris,  and 
sometimes  thought  in  French.  Mrs.  Devereux, 
still  unused  to  city  etiquette,  opened  the  door 
for  him  herself,  letting  him  out  under  the  stars. 
"  C'est  une  personne,"  he  repeated.  "  Who 
would  have  expected  it  in  this  dull  hole,  in  these 
bourgeois  surroundings?  " 

Clara,  when  she  got  back,  made  a  rush  for 
Gabriella,  and  the  two  executed  a  mad  Indian 
war  dance  for  the  benefit  of  the  cat,  which 
blinked  on  the  hearth  rug.  They  had  managed 
to  knock  down  several  chairs,  overturn  a  table 
or  two  and  to  singe  the  hem  of  Gabriella's  petti- 

39 


Mrs.  Clyde 

coat  at  the  fire,  and  were  still  whirling  about  like 
two  mad  creatures  when  Mr.  Devereux  returned. 
Clara  ran  to  him  and  threw  her  arms  about  his 
neck,  kissing  his  astonished  face.  She  was  hap- 
pier than  Gabriella.  Relief  from  anxiety  is  one 
of  the  highest  forms  of  earthly  felicity.  Ga- 
briella could  hardly  have  said  why  she  danced. 
A  sort  of  exuberant  vitality  seemed  to  force  her 
to  the  exercise.  Like  all  highly  organized  per- 
sons, she  needed  expression,  notwithstanding 
her  education  of  self-control.  She  felt,  for  al- 
most the  first  time  in  her  life,  that  she  lived;  and 
not  that  cold  gray  life  gathered  from  books — 
common  heritage  of  the  disinherited — but  a  real- 
ity. They  both  told  Charlie  Devereux  how  de- 
lightful, and  distinguished,  and  agreeable  they 
thought  the  Englishman,  and  he  told  them  they 
were  silly,  nonsensical  geese,  but  his  wife's  kisses 
were  still  hot  on  his  lips,  and  he  was  in  no  hu- 
mour to  chide  her — he  had  been  starved  too 
long. 

The   earl   duly   asked    Mrs.    Dennison    Fay 
Prentiss  for  the  invitations.     "  My  dear  mad- 
am," he  said  to  her,  "you  have  forgotten  two 
lovely  creatures,"  and  then  he  named  them. 
40 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  Oh!  yes,  to  be  sure.  Charlie  Devereux's 
little  new  wife.  I  don't  object  to  her  in  the 
least.  She  is  countrified,  but  she  is  nice-look- 
ing. The  Dunhams?  I  don't  know  the  name. 
Harriet,"  she  called  to  her  young  sister,  who 
was  arranging  some  flowers  in  the  library — 
"  Harriet,  who  are  the  Dunhams?  " 

"  The  Dunhams  from  Dunham,  do  you 
mean?  "  cried  back  Harriet  through  the  velvet 
portiere. 

"  I  suppose  so.  Lord  Dearborn  wants  them 
asked." 

"  One  of  them,"  said  the  earl,  laughing. 

"  Well,  one  of  them,  and  that  is  quite 
enough." 

Harriet  appeared  at  the  door.  "  They  are 
pretty  girls.  Emily  Lyman  knew  Ringletta  at 
school." 

"  Ringletta?  " 

"  Yes;  so  they  called  her." 

"  This  young  lady's  name  is  Gabriella,"  said 
the  earl.  "  She  is  a  fine  young  woman." 

"  We  don't  know  her,"  said  Mrs.  Prentiss. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  lady,  you  must  make  her  ac- 
quaintance! "  said  the  earl. 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Mrs.  Prentiss  desired  that  the  earl  should 
meet  only  the  best.  "  There  are  distinctions 
here,  though  you  may  not  believe  it,"  she  said 
to  him  with  a  grimace. 

He  felt  glad  that  there  were,  as  he  remem- 
bered Gabriella.  "  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  of 
course." 

"  You  can  not  expect  me  to  let  the  entire 
Merrimac  River  flood  my  drawing-rooms,"  she 
continued  in  expiring  protest.  The  Devereuxs 
and  Gabriella  were  invited. 

The  girl  did  not  electrify  the  entire  company. 
People  did  not  hang  over  the  staircases  to  watch 
her  evolutions,  or  pause  in  crowded  doorways 
to  see  her  pass,  nor  were  all  the  other  maidens 
and  matrons  cast  into  darkness  and  oblivion. 
She  was,  however,  noticed,  and  she  was  admired 
within  reasonable  limits.  She  was  not  neglected 
at  supper,  and  she  had  partners  for  the  im- 
promptu dance  which  ended  the  evening.  Her 
gown  was  pretty  and  fresh;  her  eyes  and  her 
cheeks  bright.  The  Earl  of  Dearborn  did  not 
quite  fulfil  her  expectations  as  a  cavalier.  He 
was  less  attentive  than  she  had  expected,  but 
the  thought  that  he  had  a  countess  and  a  little 
42 


Mrs.  Clyde 

son  floating  about  somewhere  relegated  him  to 
an  older  generation.  Since  she  owed  him  her 
invitation,  she  felt  inclined  to  view  him  as  a  val- 
uable friend,  not  a  possible  beau.  The  earl, 
however,  had  never  lost  sight  of  her,  and  while 
his  vanity  would  not  have  allowed  him  to  lan- 
guish at  the  feet  of  a  little  girl  from  a  factory 
town  in  preference  to  the  higher  game  which 
this  particular  soiree  offered  him,  he  returned  to 
his  allegiance  the  very  next  morning. 

Something  in  Gabriella  piqued  his  curiosity. 
He  saw  in  her  eyes  that  she  was  fevered,  and  felt 
it  would  occupy  an  idle  hour  to  solve  the  enigma 
of  her  discontent.  Manlike,  he  attributed  it  to 
a  thirst  for  sentimental  experience — such  a  crea- 
ture, he  thought,  in  a  Yankee  mill  town! — and 
decided  that  if  it  was  this  she  craved  she  should 
have  her  fill. 

"  Did  you  tell  him  I  was  engaged?  "  Ga- 
briella had  asked  of  Mrs.  Devereux. 

"Why,  no;  I  think  not,"  Clara  had  an- 
swered. 

"  Well,  don't  then." 

"  What  can  it  matter?  "  Clara  asked,  puz- 
zled; but  Gabriella  vouchsafed  no  explanation. 
43 


CHAPTER    IV 

HE  remembered  her  on  the  morrow.  He 
came  to  take  the  ladies  to  see  a  collection  of 
etchings,  and  the  expedition  prolonged  itself 
with  a  drive  and  a  luncheon  in  the  "  ladies'  ordi- 
nary "  of  the  Revere  House.  Again,  the  next 
day,  there  was  an  engagement  made  for  a  pic- 
ture gallery.  Clara  became  a  little  sleepy,  but 
Gabriella's  enjoyment  never  flagged.  The 
trysts  multiplied.  By  tacit  consent,  Mrs.  Deve- 
reux  dropped  out  of  them.  She  was  naturally  a 
good  little  woman,  full  of  household  cares  and 
solicitudes.  It  was  rather  a  relief  to  have  her 
handsome  guest  off  her  hands  for  a  certain  part 
of  every  day.  The  visit,  at  her  own  urgency, 
had  prolonged  itself.  Three  weeks  were  draw- 
ing to  their  close.  Gabriella  lingered  in  Bow- 
doin  Street;  the  Earl  of  Dearborn  in  Boston. 

There  is  nothing  so  flattering  as  to  be  lis- 
tened to,  probably  because  nothing  is  so  rare. 

44 


Mrs.  Clyde 

There  is  much  perfunctory  politeness  in  the 
world,  or  at  least  there  was  in  those  days,  and 
there  is  a  certain  amount  of  affected  sympathy; 
but  when  we  find  the  genuine  article  we  recog- 
nise it.  The  rapt  interest  with  which  Gabriella 
listened  to  Lord  Dearborn's  lightest  word,  the 
almost  anguished  attention  she  accorded  to  his 
descriptions  of  his  world,  the  palpitating  ques- 
tioning of  her  whole  attitude,  might  have  de- 
ceived a  keener  reader  of  feminine  mystery.  It 
deceived  him.  He  was  becoming  seriously 
epris  of  this  odd,  beautiful  young  woman,  who 
so  trustfully  accepted  all  his  propositions, 
walked,  drove,  ate  with  him.  He  was  also  be- 
coming somewhat  impatient.  He  had  allowed 
the  Elgin  party  to  leave  without  him.  The 
countess  wrote  that  Washington  bored  her. 
His  plea  of  literary  and  historic  research  amid 
the  annals  of  Cambridge  College,  and  the  in- 
spection of  such  musty  palimpsest  as  the  Bos- 
ton library  offered  for  his  work  on  America,  was 
becoming  suspiciously  prolonged.  Boston  is 
chill  and  windy  in  December,  and  the  public 
tables  of  a  restaurant  and  the  halls  of  museums 
are  not  convenient  places  for  love-making.  The 
4  45 


Mrs.  Clyde 

earl  had  caught  a  cold  in  his  head  standing 
about  in  draughts  and  on  street  corners,  and  he 
was  beginning  to  feel  cross.  It  is  all  very  well 
to  be  fascinating,  but  to  be  fascinating  under 
such  conditions  is  inconceivably  distasteful. 
Yet  there  was  that  about  Miss  Dunham  which 
arrested  upon  the  man's  lips  any  suggestion  of 
more  propitious  tete-a-tetes,  and  then,  in  fact, 
where  and  how  and  when?  She  was  a  lady,  if  a 
facile  one,  and  he  instinctively  felt  that  she 
would  be  alarmed  and  perhaps  hurry  back  to 
Dunham  if  he  permitted  himself  an  imprudent 
step.  He  was  allowed  to  call  frequently,  it  is 
true,  in  Bowdoin  Street;  but  Mrs.  Devereux 
was  generally  present,  and  Mr.  Devereux  always 
a  possibility.  Gabriella  sat  at  some  distance 
from  him  embroidering  the  seam  on  a  nonde- 
script garment,  which  she  said  was  a  flannel  pet- 
ticoat for  her  sister  Ringletta.  It  was,  in  fact, 
a  part  of  her  own  marriage  outfit.  She  had 
been  at  work  upon  her  trousseau  for  two  years. 
At  last  the  earl's  determination  to  gain  an 
opportunity  of  greater  expansion,  amid  safer 
surroundings,  seemed  miraculously  granted. 
Mr.  Devereux  was  called  by  a  peremptory  sum- 
46 


Mrs.  Clyde 

mons  to  the  sick  bed  of  a  widowed  sister,  who 
was  to  undergo  surgical  treatment.  Mrs.  Deve- 
reux  decided  to  accompany  her  husband.  Ga- 
briella  offered  to  return  to  Dunham,  but,  as 
Christmas  was  nigh,  and  as  she  had  arranged 
to  pass  it  with  her  friends,  it  was  concluded 
that  she  should  remain  and  await  develop- 
ments. Mrs.  Devereux  thought  the  sister 
unduly  alarmed,  which,  in  fact,  proved  to  be 
the  case,  and  in  four  days  Clara  had  returned 
to  Boston.  These  four  days,  however,  were  to 
leave  their  indelible  mark  upon  Gabriella's 
destiny. 

On  the  morning  of  the  Devereuxs's  depar- 
ture, Gabriella  received  a  letter  from  Walter 
Perry.  He  was  recovering  from  his  illness.  He 
was  now  able  to  leave  his  room,  to  go  out;  and 
since  she  did  not  come  back  to  see  him,  he  had 
decided  to  come  to  town  to  see  her.  The  letter 
was  reproachful.  She  had  only  written  to  him 
twice  during  her  absence.  The  letters  were  not 
such  as  she  had  once  addressed  to  him.  They 
were  kind  but  cold.  A  cooled  affection  is  al- 
ways kind.  Remorse  pays  tribute.  He  found 
fault  with  their  tone.  He  seemed  perplexed  and 
47 


Mrs.  Clyde 

dissatisfied.  He  ended  his  missive  with  the 
hope  that  she  had  not  forgotten  that  this  trip  to 
Manila  was  his  last.  He  should  return  in  the 
spring  and  claim  her.  He  insisted  upon  this, 
repeating  several  times,  "  We  will  be  married 
in  June."  He  told  her  that  on  the  following 
day,  at  three  o'clock,  he  would  call  upon  her  in 
Bowdoin  Street,  and  finished  his  letter  with  pro- 
testations of  ardent  devotion. 

Now,  Gabriella  had  made  an  appointment 
with  Lord  Dearborn  for  that  very  hour  that  very 
afternoon.  He  was  to  call  and  take  her  for  a 
walk.  She  did  not  know  that,  having  learned 
from  Mrs.  Devereux  of  her  intended  absence, 
he  had  mentally  decided  to  postpone  the  walk 
and  to  pass  the  afternoon  with  the  girl  in  her 
friend's  drawing-room.  But,  had  she  known  it, 
her  only  disquietude  would  have  sprung,  not 
from  any  apprehension  of  the  solitude  a  deux, 
but  rather  from  vexation  that  a  third  should  ven- 
ture to  disturb  such  rich  communion. 

To  her  it  mattered  very  little  if  she  saw  Dear- 
born in  the  streets  or  between  closed  doors. 
All  she  asked  him  to  give  her,  there  or  here,  was 
the  knowledge  for  which  she  panted.  Walter 
48 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Perry  did  not  tell  her  if  his  stay  in  Boston  would 
be  prolonged,  and  there  was  no  time  to  answer 
him.  His  letter  caused  her  a  certain  degree  of 
compunction.  He  had  been  ill,  he  was  evident- 
ly hurt;  but  the  thought  of  putting  off  the  earl, 
of  losing  the  joy  of  her  afternoon,  the  pleasure 
of,  perhaps,  passing  some  of  her  Dunham  ac- 
quaintances— in  town  for  the  holiday  shopping 
— in  the  company  of  a  man  whose  elegance 
caused  persons  to  stare  after  them,  filled  her 
with  anger.  Walter's  visit  seemed  to  her  pur- 
posely inopportune,  uninvited — a  persecution. 
She  had  sometimes  in  the  past  accused  him  of 
supineness,  of  a  lack  of  energy,  of  willingness 
to  wait  for  her  too  calmly,  of  accepting  too  sure- 
ly her  own  loyalty.  Women  resent  such  surety. 
She  had  never,  however,  thought  this  the  result 
of  indifference.  It  was  the  security  born  of  his 
own  absolute  fidelity.  The  heart  welling  with 
its  own  wealth  of  feeling  is  less  doubting  than 
the  one  which  distrusts  itself.  Walter  Perry 
knew  no  such  distrust  and  no  remorse.  If  there 
had  been  flaws  in  his  conduct,  they  were  not 
deep  ones — not  such  as  wound.  He  believed 
too  well  in  himself  not  to  be  sure  of  her,  and 
49 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Gabriella  guessed  it,  even  when  she  accused  him 
in  her  mind. 

With  her,  the  easy  conquest,  as  she  stepped 
into  womanhood,  of  the  best  beau  of  the 
town,  of  the  petted  and  adored  "  young  man  " 
of  all  the  maidens  and  their  mothers,  had 
sufficed.  Not  analytic,  her  pride  had  lured  her 
into  the  belief  that  she  was  attached  to  him, 
which  belief  had  been  kept  alive  by  the  envy  of 
the  other  girls  and  the  absence  of  any  more  im- 
portant suitors.  What  was  there  in  Walter 
Perry  to  so  attract  women,  or,  at  least,  the  wom- 
en of  his  village?  One  must  fit  standards  to 
environment.  He  was  not  better-looking  than 
Ball  Crane;  nor  so  clever  as  Lloyd  Taintor,  the 
young  Unitarian  minister;  nor  so  muscular  as 
Julian  Adams,  the  banker's  son;  nor  so  good  at 
the  dance  as  Sears  Williams;  nor  yet  was  he 
rich,  like  Mr.  Clyde — yet  he  remained  their  su- 
perior. In  later  years,  when  he  became  a  great 
general,  after  the  war,  where  he  so  distinguished 
himself — years  later,  when  his  hair  was  quite 
gray,  and  Gabriella  met  him  again,  she  under- 
stood better  his  power.  He  had  not  yet  found 
his  bearings  or  a  channel  for  his  genius.  Born 

50 


Mrs.  Clyde 

to  execute  and  to  command,  he  languished  in 
his  fetters.  Descended  from  a  line  of  warriors, 
the  life  of  the  camp  and  of  the  open  were  to  form 
him.  The  times  were  not  yet  ripe. 

Strangely  enough  he  was  very  short  of 
stature,  shorter  than  Gabriella,  to  whom  this  fact 
never  failed  to  bring  mortification.  His  fea- 
tures were  regular,  but  somewhat  finnikin.  He 
had  brown  eyes,  Hyperion  locks  and  a  small 
curled  mustache.  His  taste  for  the  military  had 
induced  him  to  join  a  company  of  militia,  to 
whose  captaincy  he  had  promptly  risen.  Proud 
of  this  advancement,  in  imitation  of  the  regulars, 
he  wore  a  round  cloak  and  a  peaked  hat,  which 
the  belles  of  Dunham  thought  "  ravishing  "  and 
"  lovely,"  and  which  gave  him  the  aspect  of  a 
tenor  or  a  troubadour.  One  expected  from  his 
lips  a  romance  d'amour;  one  looked  uncon- 
sciously under  the  hem  of  his  talma  for  the 
handle  of  a  concealed  guitar.  He  was  pictur- 
esque. 

Gabriella  sent  a  message  by  one  of  Mrs.  Dev- 
ereux's  maid  servants — there  were  but  three — 
begging  the  earl  to  postpone  his  call  until  half- 
past  four  o'clock.  This  would  permit  her  to  get 


Mrs.  Clyde 

rid  of  her  lover  before  Dearborn's  advent;  and, 
if  too  late  for  the  walk,  it  left,  at  least,  a  chance 
for  a  brief  interview.  But  as  ill-luck  would  have 
it,  Perry's  train  was  belated,  and  not  reaching 
his  inamorata's  door  until  half-past  three,  when 
he  left  her,  in  an  hour,  he  encountered  Dearborn 
on  the  porch.  The  men  scanned  each  other  nar- 
rowly and  passed. 

"  Who  is  the  little  man  in  the  little  cloak?  " 
asked  Dearborn  of  the  girl. 

"  The  little  man  in  the  little  cloak,"  she  an- 
swered him  with  sudden  resentment,  "  is  the 
young  gentleman  I  am  going  to  marry." 

Her  nerves  were  in  that  state  of  exasperation 
when  a  woman  finds  relief  in  any  rashness.  Her 
interview  with  Walter  had  been  stormy.  He 
had  upbraided  her  with  heartlessness,  and  the 
charge  had  left  her  speechless.  Every  word  he 
had  spoken,  every  tone  of  his  voice,  had  shot 
through  her  the  certainty  that  her  love,  if  love  it 
had  ever  been,  was  well  over.  Much  as  she  had 
chafed  under  the  tediousness  of  her  long  en- 
gagement, its  wearisomeness,  its  discourage- 
ment, a  speedy  marriage  now  loomed  before  her, 
portentous  and  dismaying.  She  hardly  realized 
52 


Mrs.  Clyde 

herself  that  in  these  few  brief  weeks  an  abyss  had 
been  forever  dug  between  her  lover  and  herself. 
The  promises  made  to  her  of  her  own  cottage 
near  the  mills,  a  maid  to  wait  upon  her,  a  garden 
for  such  hours  as  should  be  free  from  household 
tasks — with  the  handsome  Walter  at  her  side — 
now  appalled  her.  She  looked  at  his  crisp, 
brown  hair,  his  rather  uncared-for  hands,  his 
clothes,  with  their  attempt  at  the  fine  dandy's, 
and  their  forlorn  shabby  inelegance.  She  smelt 
the  perfume  of  the  well-known  pomade  he  used, 
which  had  intoxicated  the  senses  of  virgin  Dun- 
ham, and  felt  that  he  had  dwindled.  Something 
akin  to  disgust  arose  in  her  breast  and  stifled 
her.  Gabriella  adroitly  controlled,  however,  all 
expression  of  this  reaction.  She  smoothed  him 
down  with  pretty  phrases,  lulled  him  with  false 
excuses,  and  yet  as  she  did  so,  she  was  resolving 
that  she  would  not  see  his  face  again,  and  in  her 
ears  was  the  reiterated  refrain,  "  It  is  over,  it  is 
over."  If  only  he  would  go  and  give  her  time 
— time  which  had  seemed  so  long — to  gather 
herself  together,  muster  up  courage  to  break 
through  this  cowardice  which  was  an  acknowl- 
edgment of  the  other's  force!  How  should  she 

53 


Mrs.  Clyde 

tell  him  the  truth!  She  thought  of  Mrs.  Pren- 
tiss's  musicale,  and  of  the  men  and  women  she 
had  seen  there.  She  thought  of  Dearborn,  and 
her  whole  soul  revolted  at  the  prospect  of  a 
narrow  life  at  Dunham,  spent  with  this  once- 
admired  village  swain.  And  it  had  seemed 
sweet! 

He  was  moody  when  they  parted;  albeit,  he 
insisted  he  should  remain  in  Boston  and  visit  her 
again  on  the  next  day.  He  named  the  hotel 
where  he  was  stopping  and  left  her  miserable — 
and  it  was  in  this  mood  of  misery  that  Dearborn 
found  her. 

The  defiant  announcement  of  their  relation- 
ship whetted  the  passion  of  the  earl  with  a  sud- 
den sting  of  jealousy.  "  Ha,  ha!  "  he  laughed. 
"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  a  glorious  creature 
like  yourself,  made  .to  rule  the  souls  of  court- 
iers, is  to  be  tied  to  a  ridiculous  coq  de  vil- 
lage like  that!  Ha,  ha!  Try  another  form 
of  play  with  me,  Miss  Dunham.  This  joke 
is  hardly  in  good  taste,  and  does  you  little 
justice." 

Her  reply  had  in  it  a  vestige  of  that  pluck 
in  which  she  was  not  lacking,  but  his  questions 
54 


Mrs.  Clyde 

and  his  comments  sealed  Walter's  fate.  Her  fal- 
tering fancy  died  in  the  throes  of  an  unexpected 
pain. 

Before  the  earl  had  left  her,  she  had  unbur- 
dened her  heart  to  him,  and  told  him  all  her 
doubts  and  fears. 

"  You  do  not  now  love  him,"  he  had  said 
seriously  and  kindly,  desisting  from  any  further 
use  of  those  weapons  of  ridicule  which  he  but 
too  well  saw  had  done  their  work.  Before  he 
left  her,  in  the  late  twilight,  she  had  promised 
him  to  write  that  night  to  Walter  Perry  his  final 
and  irrevocable  dismissal.  "  You  will  be  more 
at  peace,"  the  earl  had  said  to  her.  "  Mr.  Perry 
may  have  excellent  qualities,  but  you  could  not 
marry  such  a  one.  It  would  be  an  absurd  union. 
I  gauged  him  at  a  glance." 

"  No,  it  has  been  a  grave  mistake,"  said  Ga- 
briella,  her  eyes  skyward.  She  was  still  burning 
from  the  exaltation  of  her  confession.  How 
pleasant  it  was  to  find  a  friend  to  soothe  her  ter- 
rors, to  dry  her  tears  and  tell  her  what  she  did 
was  well!  When  the  earl  pressed  her  hand  and 
imprinted  a  respectful  kiss  on  her  low  forehead, 
just  where  her  hair  grew  heaviest,  she  looked 

55 


Mrs.  Clyde 

up  at  him  gratefully  from  under  half-closed 
lids.  He  was  fraternal. 

She  ran  to  her  room  and  wrote  to  Walter. 
She  then  put  on  her  bonnet  and  mantilla  and 
herself  sallied  forth,  light  of  foot,  if  not  of  con- 
science, to  leave  it  at  his  lodgings.  She  knew 
the  way;  it  was  not  far. 

"  Give  it  to  the  gentleman  immediately,"  she 
told  the  negro  porter,  who  assured  her  that  Mr. 
Perry  was  in  his  room.  All  the  evening  she 
feared  that  he  would  come — at  least  she  ex- 
pected an  answer  to  her  letter.  None  came,  but 
early  in  the  morning  he  came  himself. 

"  I  could  not  move  last  night,"  he  said  to  her 
sadly;  "your  note  had  paralyzed  me.  I  could 
only  read  it  over  and  over  like  a  man  struck  with 
palsy.  I  only  understood  it  when  it  was  too  late 
for  you  to  receive  me.  Dear  Gabriella,  tell  me 
that  this  is  a  hideous  nightmare,  a  dream  of  the 
night  hours,  and  that  this  bright  sunshine  sees 
you  still  mine." 

She  did  give  him  her  hand  a  minute,  but  he 

wore  the  cloak.     She  had  seen  it  coming  up  the 

street  waving  in  the  wind  behind  him,  and  had 

marvelled  how  it  was  possible  she  could  ever 

56 


Mrs.  Clyde 

have  thought  of  this  man,  who  was  absurd — yes, 
absurd — "  the  little  man  in  the  little  cloak,"  as  a 
possible  husband. 

Well,  the  little  man  was  found  to  have  a  big 
spirit.  He  made  a  fight  for  his  girl.  How 
could  he  give  her  up?  How  could  he  give 
her  up,  and  all  the  hopes  and  all  the  longings 
of  the  years!  Why,  such  a  thing  was  mon- 
strous —  this  hard  struggle  and  no  recom- 
pense! He  paced  the  room  in  wildest  agita- 
tion— pleaded,  implored.  He  asked  her  to 
name  the  test  of  prowess  that  should  win  her 
back  again;  he  blamed  and  scourged  himself  for 
having  lost  her.  He  threw  his  pride  down  at 
her  feet  and  grovelled  there  himself;  then  turned 
as  if  a  snake  had  stung  him  to  bid  her  name  his 
rival  that  he  might  slay  him.  Was  it  the  man 
he  had  met  on  the  doorstep  yesterday? 

"Pshaw!"  said  Gabriella.  "That  is  an 
Englishman,  the  Earl  of  Dearborn  " — she  hated 
herself  for  naming  him — "  a  married  gentleman 
who  calls  on  Clara  Devereux."  To  the  ingenu- 
ousness of  Dunham  this  seemed  conclusive. 

He  had  worked  like  a  dog  through  his  best 
years  of  youth  to  scratch  up  the  small  income 

57 


Mrs.  Clyde 

which  should  enable  him  to  claim  her.  "  Oh, 
Gella,  Gella!  "  The  pet  name  made  her  wince. 
At  last  he  hid  his  face  away  from  her  and  wept. 
She  remained  firm,  dry-eyed,  dry-lipped,  before 
this  strange  agony,  which  touched  her  little — 
which  seemed  to  her  a  sort  of  punishment, 
harder  for  her  to  bear  than  for  him  to  inflict. 
She  wished  he  would  stop.  She  wished  he 
would  go  away.  It  wearied  her.  Nevertheless 
she  had  never  thought  him  worth  as  much  dur- 
ing all  the  years  she  had  misunderstood  the 
depth  of  his  attachment.  She  gazed  at  him 
wonderingly,  with  the  feeling  that  she  had  never 
known  him  at  all  well  before;  that  she  had  been 
stupid,  and  Gabriella  hated  stupidity.  When, 
at  last,  broken,  exhausted,  suspecting  every- 
thing but  what  was  true,  Walter  left  her,  she  did 
him  full  justice.  He  had  gained  dignity.  He, 
at  least,  had  ceased  to  be  ridiculous.  He,  on  his 
part,  went  out  with  death  in  his  soul.  The  poor 
fellow  loved  her. 


CHAPTER   V 

IT  had  all  been  so  extremely  disagreeable, 
and  there  was  the  further  humiliating  obligation 
of  announcing  the  rupture  to  her  parents  and 
sisters,  and  facing  the  silly  gossip  of  a  small 
town.  Gabriella  felt  she  required  some  distrac- 
tion. Where  in  all  Boston  could  she  find  solace 
if  not  in  the  society  of  that  good  friend,  that 
brave  gentleman,  that  flower  of  foreign  chivalry 
and  prowess,  Francis  George  Alfred  Dinadan, 
Viscount  Beaumains,  Earl  of  Dearborn?  When 
a  despairing  note  from  her  discarded  suitor  ad- 
vised her  that  he  had  left  the  city  and  would 
trouble  her  no  more  forever,  Gabriella  awoke  to 
the  expediency  of  providing  herself  with  some 
form  of  entertainment.  The  fact  of  her  impend- 
ing return  to  Dunham  heightened  her  wish  for 
present  recreation.  The  presence  of  the  earl 
acted  upon  her  always  like  a  stimulant.  Never 
before  had  the  commerce  of  a  human  being 

59 


Mrs.  Clyde 

seemed  to  her  so  exhilarating,  so  instructive  and 
improving.  To-day,  she  told  herself,  might  per- 
haps be  the  last  time  they  would  meet  alone. 
Was  Gabriella  gifted  with  power  of  prophecy? 
She  decided  to  profit  by  this  chance.  She  smil- 
ingly, therefore,  assented  when  his  lordship's 
valet — who  brought  her  a  box  of  lollipops  with 
a  card  soon  after  breakfast — asked  Miss  Dun- 
ham if  she  would  receive  the  earl,  his  master, 
that  evening.  The  valet  grinned  as  he  left  the 
sweeties,  and  thought  her  a  very  pretty  young 
lady  indeed.  He  was  devoted  to  the  earl,  and 
the  soul  of  discretion.  It  had  been  expedient 
that  the  servant  should  know  her  answer,  there- 
fore this  verbal  message  and  no  sealed  billet. 
Mr.  Yellowplush  descended  to  the  lower  re- 
gions, where  his  presence  produced  the  same 
flutter  in  the  dovecote  as  his  master's  above 
stairs.  After  such  passages  of  gallantry  as 
should  incline  the  female  heart  to  pleasure,  he 
invited  the  ladies,  Anne  and  Janet,  to  the  theatre 
and  a  supper,  at  which  he  assured  them  they 
should  meet  no  less  a  valctaille  than  that  of  Mrs. 
Dennison  Fay  Prentiss.  This  lady's  fame 
crowned  all  she  touched  to  glory,  and  the  maids 
60 


Mrs.  Clyde 

tittered  with  delight.  Only,  only  there  was 
Miss  Dunham — they  damned  her  in  their  gentle 
hearts — who  was  still  a  visitor.  Who  then 
would  open  the  door  if  company  should  come? 

"  Get  you  along  wid  ye,  baggage  that  ye 
are,"  spoke  up  old  Mrs.  Fallon,  the  Irish  cook. 
"  I'll  ope  the  door  for  Miss  Dunham  while  ye're 
larkin'.  The  Lord  save  us,  I  guess  there  won't 
be  callers  as'll  see  me  if  I  hides  back  of  the  door 
knob." 

The  valet  gallantly  regretted  that  Mrs.  Fal- 
lon could  not  also  join  them,  and  promised  to 
send  her  a  bottle  of  wine  to  cheer  her  vigils. 
"  Now,  mind,"  he  said,  "  you  drink  my  health  at 
half-past  eight  o'clock,  for  I  was  born  at  that 
hour  this  day  twenty-four  year.  It  is  my  birth- 
day you'll  be  celebrating."  Well,  the  lie  did  not 
choke  him,  and  Mrs.  Fallon  laughed  uproarious- 
ly and  took  the  pledge. 

In  a  glass  case  in  Clara  Devereux's  bedroom 
there  reposed  on  crimson  velvet,  among  bits  of 
choice  bric-a-brac,  a  pair  of  fairy  slippers,  which 
a  lady — a  relative  of  hers — had  brought  from 
Paris  and  had  sent  to  Mrs.  Devereux  as  a  wed- 
ding gift.  Mrs.  Devereux  had  never  worn 
5  61 


Mrs.  Clyde 

them,  contenting  herself  with  gazing  at  them  in 
mute  wonder.  She  kept  them,  with  her  rare 
china,  under  cover.  They  were,  indeed,  fit  for 
an  empress.  They  were  mules,  with  high 
curved  heels,  just  tipped  at  their  base  with  gold. 
They  were  of  light  blue  satin  and  lined  with  rose 
colour.  They  were  embroidered  in  gold  and 
pearls.  They  were  that  sort  of  adjunct  to  the 
toilet  which  women  most  covet,  and  Gabriella 
had  often  gazed  at  them  with  the  longing  of 
parched  creatures  for  luscious  fruits.  Wander- 
ing aimlessly  about  the  house,  restless,  unaccus- 
tomed to  idleness,  thinking  of  yesterday's  re- 
solve, which  was  at  once  a  wrench  and  a  relief, 
she  stopped  at  Mrs.  Devereux's  door.  It  was 
ajar.  The  room  was  in  perfect  order,  free  to  be 
entered.  Gabriella  went  in. 

Lord  Dearborn's  man  had  departed.  The 
maids  were  in  the  kitchen  and  the  pantry  at  their 
work.  Gabriella  went  to  the  etagere,  and  once 
again  looked  at  the  blue  slippers.  Involuntarily 
her  hands  reached  out  to  them.  She  pressed 
the  lock.  It  resisted.  "  The  key  can  not 
be  far.  I  am  certain  that  Coy  dusts  them  her- 
self." With  the  thought  came  investigation. 
62 


Mrs.  Clyde 

She  passed  her  hand  over  the  top  of  the  etagere 
and  blackened  her  ringers,  but  she  grasped  the 
key,  which  in  fact  rested  there. 

She  unlocked  the  door  and  drew  forth  the 
pretty  baubles;  for  such  they  looked  to  her. 
Sitting  down  on  the  floor  and  kicking  off  her 
"  ties,"  she  thrust  her  feet  into  their  shallow 
depths.  She  noticed  that  on  one  of  them,  across 
the  sole,  the  name  of  Mrs.  Devereux  was  marked 
in  ink.  Now,  Mrs.  Devereux  was  quite  petite, 
and  even  for  her  these  tiny  marvels  would  have 
been  snug.  Gabriella,  whose  feet  were  far 
wider,  could  barely  put  them  on.  The  difficult 
achievement,  however,  was  possible,  since  the 
things  had  no  backs.  She  sat  on  the  rug  and 
laughed.  Then  she  rose  and  thrust  them  into 
her  breast  and  ran  to  her  own  room. 

There  are  women  who  so  crave  sympathy 
that  they  often  welcome  pity;  Gabriella  was  not 
of  these.  A  suggestion  Dearborn  had  dropped 
at  their  last  meeting  had  rankled  in  her  mind. 
He  had  made  an  allusion  to  the  disappointment 
her  broken  troth  might  bring  to  her  family,  and 
there  had  been  some  word  as  to  money.  He 
knew  that  she  was  one  of  several  sisters.  She 
63 


Mrs.  Clyde 

was  not  quite  sure  if  she  had  understood,  yet  it 
had  been  borne  in  upon  her  that  the  man  meant 
to  imply  that  if  she  ever  needed  pecuniary  aid  he 
was  her  friend.  It  had  rankled  within  her,  even 
though  hardly  admitted.  "  No,  he  could  not, 
dared  not,  have  said  that!"  She  had  in  her 
confusion  only  murmured  that  her  father  was 
quite  able  to  provide  for  all  his  children,  but 
under  her  breath,  equivocally,  so  hot  with  shame 
did  she  become  at  the  mere  hint  of  such  audac- 
ity. He  had  been  so  amiable  and  respectful 
directly  afterward  that  she  had  driven  from  her 
mind  such  surmise. 

To-night,  she  thought,  was  a  God-given  op- 
portunity to  show  him  that  she  was  not  in  need 
of  help.  She  would  dazzle  him  with  her  ele- 
gance! She  dressed  herself  elaborately  in  a 
white  mull,  with  open  throat,  an  Indian  scarf 
about  her  shoulders  and  half-bared  arms.  She 
passed  a  ribbon  through  her  tresses,  donned 
white  silk  dancing  hose  and — then — the  slippers! 
She  felt  that  she  looked  rich,  as  well  as  hand- 
some. As  she  found  movement  in  them  diffi- 
cult, she  seated  herself  at  a  table  near  to  the 
lighted  candle  dips,  and  was  pretending  absorp- 
64 


Mrs.  Clyde 

tion  in  a  Book  of  Beauty  which  lay  conven- 
iently at  hand,  when  Mrs.  Fallon  hoarsely  ush- 
ered in  the  earl.  The  woman  lumbered  heavily 
downstairs,  leaving  the  two  together.  They 
heard  the  kitchen  door  closing  behind  her.  He 
almost  directly  noticed  the  tips  of  the  satin 
mules. 

"  Her  hands  are  baddish,"  he  thought  to 
himself,  "  but  her  foot  is  all  it  should  be  when 
properly  shod."  He  told  her  so,  and  she  lis- 
tened, glad  to  surprise  him  with  her  refinements, 
but  much  more  willing  to  talk  of  other  things 
than  her  apparel  or  her  beauty.  When  she 
could  interrupt  his  flattery:  "  Now,  tell  me  of 
the  London  season  again,"  she  said  to  him,  set- 
tling herself  upon  the  wide  sofa  to  which  she  had 
invited  him,  "  and  of  the  country  parties  on  your 
estates  and " 

But  Dearborn  had  not  called  to  talk  of  Lon- 
don levees  or  of  country  sports.  "  Come  to 
London  in  the  spring  with  your  friend  Mrs. 
Devereux,"  he  said  absently.  "  I  will  show  you 
everything,  and  get  you  asked  everywhere." 
This  promise  did  not  alarm  him.  He  intended 
to  return  to  India  and  hunt  elephants  the  next 
65 


Mrs.  Clyde 

year,  and  knew  that  London,  which  he  detested, 
would  not  see  him. 

The  deserted  house,  her  proximity,  the 
ardent  coquetry  for  which  she  had  evidently 
dressed  herself  for  him  alone  was  in  his  blood. 
How  could  he  doubt  that  her  abrupt  dismissal 
of  a  lover  she  had  kept  dangling  for  four  years, 
her  promptness  to  do  this  at  his  mere  bidding, 
her  confidences,  her  wish  to  please  him,  the  per- 
fect amiability  with  which  she  hied  to  every 
tryst  with  him,  meant  she  was  subjugated,  help- 
less, his,  a  facile  prey,  a  ready  victim? 

Lovelace  is  out  of  date;  even  in  those  days 
he  was  already  in  his  dotage.  It  takes  to-day 
the  genius  of  a  Maurel  to  make  the  staged 
Don  Juan  other  than  trivial  and  preposter- 
ous. The  artful  seducer,  so  common  a  figure  in 
the  drama  of  the  past,  is  to  us  an  unreal  being, 
at  whose  silly  posturings  we  laugh,  fatigued  and 
unconvinced.  Lord  Dearborn  has  been  called 
the  last  of  his  type.  It  seems  incredible  that  a 
man  well-born,  well-mannered,  far  too  well-bred 
to  boast  of  conquest,  who  had  thus  far  behaved 
toward  Gabriella  with  such  a  show  of  honour, 
should  have  been  so  blind  and  so  perverse.  It 
66 


Mrs.  Clyde 

may  seem  paradoxical  to  say  that  youthful 
maidens  brought  up  in  small  towns  are  probably 
less  unknowing  of  the  evil  all  must  guess  at  last 
than  those  reared  in  great  cities.  In  narrow 
limits  tongues  have  more  scope,  reach  farther, 
do  more  damage.  Such  stories  travel  faster — 
stories  of  shame  and  sin.  Gabriella  was  most 
innocent.  She  had  redeemed  some  forfeits  at 
fifteen,  measured  a  yard  of  love  or  two  under  the 
boughs,  where  the  boys  and  girls  of  Dunham 
frolicked  and  ran  about  together.  Then  she 
had  been  engaged  to  Walter  Perry,  and  had, 
now  and  then,  given  him  a  frank,  chaste  kiss; 
yet  she  had  kept  her  child's  pure  heart.  Abso- 
lutely ignorant,  she  was  not.  In  less  than 
twenty  minutes,  if  she  had  not  guessed  what 
Dearborn  felt  for  her,  she  was  already  uneasy  in 
his  presence,  fearful,  inclined  to  summon  Mrs. 
Fallen,  to  make  a  quick  excuse  to  leave  the 
room,  to  wish  herself  anywhere  in  safety;  but 
while  she  wavered,  her  foil  in  air,  repelling  ad- 
vances more  and  more  fervid — before  she  knew 
what  move  to  make,  the  man  had  caught  her  in 
his  arms;  his  lips  sought  hers,  his  breath  was  on 
her  dusky  head.  A  sudden  fury  gave  her 
67 


Mrs.  Clyde 

strength.  In  one  wild  impulse  to  be  free,  she 
tore  herself  from  his  embrace,  flung  her  strong 
arm  out  from  the  shoulder  and  struck  him  such 
a  blow  across  the  cheek  as  sent  him  tingling  to 
the  wall.  Men  like  to  awaken  the  animal  in 
women,  but  are  always  surprised  when  it  springs. 

An  instant  later  she  limped  into  the  kitchen 
with  distraught  eyes — limped,  for,  like  Cinder- 
ella in  her  flight,  she  had  left  a  shoe  behind. 

Mrs.  Fallon  looked  up  dazed  from  the  rock- 
ing-chair where  she  was  dozing.  An  uncorked 
bottle  stood  upon  the  dresser,  an  empty  wine 
glass  on  the  table.  The  valet  surely  had  served 
his  master  better  than  fate.  "  What  is  it, 
honey?  "  she  whimpered,  a  vacuous  smile  light- 
ing up  her  flat,  red  countenance.  "  What  is  it? 
I  niver  took  but  a  dhrop,  my  purty.  Dun  tell 
the  missus  on  me  whin  she  comes  in  from  th' 
country." 

Well,  it  was  better  so,  no  doubt,  and  when 
she  heard  him  finally  let  himself  out  of  the  front 
door  and  she  crept  upstairs  again  through  the 
deserted  house,  she  could  better  measure  the 
depth  of  her  humiliation  for  the  fact  that  her 
protectress  was  half  tipsy. 

68 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Three  hours  later  it  was  she  who  let  in  the 
returning  maids,  for  Mrs.  Fallon  seemed  like  a 
person  drugged,  and  had  fallen  back  into  her 
chair  in  stertorous  slumber. 

One  thing  remained — the  mule.  The  other 
was  nowhere  to  be  found.  She  was  forced  to 
conclude  that  the  amorous  gentleman,  either  in 
teasing  vengeance  or  unquenched  hope,  had 
stolen  it.  It  did  but  add  to  her  discomfiture  to 
find  the  missing  one  was  marked  with  Clara 
Devereux's  name.  Did  ever  destiny  play  a  poor 
girl  such  tricks! 

Clara's  lip  was  a  trifle  thin  when  Gabriella, 
leaning  at  her  knees,  her  face  suffused  with 
blushes,  told  her  all,  or  almost  all.  She  did 
adore  those  slippers  so!  And  then  to  have  the 
one  with  her  name  inscribed  in  such  a  rake's  pos- 
session! Could  not  Gabriella  write  to  him  and 
get  it  back?  If  Charles  should  find  it  all  out 
and  make  a  fuss?  This  seemed  improbable. 
But  there  are  limits  to  hospitality. 

"  Do  you  appreciate  what  you  are  asking 
me? "  almost  shrieked  Gabriella.  "  I'd  rather 
meet  the  devil  himself  than  that  wretch  again!  " 

Clara  began  to  think  that  Miss  Dunham  was 
69 


Mrs.  Clyde 

a  somewhat  complicated  guest.  She  was  cer- 
tainly interesting.  There  was  no  dulness  where 
she  dwelt — what  with  Perry  and  the  earl  and 
everything.  But  bless  me!  she  could  have 
slapped  her  when  she  remembered  those  heaven- 
ly mules — from  Paris  too,  and  a  wedding  gift. 
The  girl  must  be  mad!  She,  at  any  rate, 
brought  responsibilities.  Here  was  certainly 
another  case  where  it  would  have  been  wiser  to 
eat  her  own  cake,  wear  her  own  shoes.  It  was 
now  Friday.  Christmas  was  nigh.  Its  mince 
pies  were  to  be  consumed  on  the  following  Sun- 
day. Gabriella,  in  broken  accents,  said  she  must 
be  off  and  homeward  bound  betimes  on  Mon- 
day. Clara  acquiesced  without  too  much  la- 
ment. 


70 


CHAPTER    VI 

ON  the  Saturday,  Miss  Dunham's  last  day  of 
city  life,  the  ladies  decided  to  pay  some  visits. 
They  sallied  forth  on  foot  in  the  clear,  sharp 
sunshine  of  an  American  afternoon.  They  con- 
cluded first  and  foremost  to  pay  their  party  call 
in  Pemberton  Square.  The  season  was  a  mild 
one.  There  was  no  snow  and  little  frost. 

"  A  green  Christmas  makes  a  fat  church- 
yard," said  Mrs.  Devereux,  as  they  walked 
along.  Gabriella  remembered  the  words  after- 
ward. 

When  they  rang  Mrs.  Prentiss's  door-bell  at 
three  o'clock,  they  were  told  by  the  man  servant 
that  she  was  in  her  drawing-room  receiving  com- 
pany. There  were,  in  fact,  two  or  three  ladies 
present,  chatting  together  by  the  fireside.  She 
rose  and  with  the  gracious  ease  of  her  assured 
position  greeted  the  newcomers,  begging  them 
to  loosen  their  tippets,  and  asking  Miss  Dun- 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ham  lightly  if  her  visit  in  Boston  had  proved 
agreeable.  It  was  evident,  however,  from  the 
silence  of  the  others  that  a  subject  of  some  im- 
portance had  been  interrupted,  and  after  a  brief 
hesitancy,  like  some  great  bird  which  hovers  in 
mid  air  before  it  swoops  on  the  gust  to  seize  its 
prey,  the  conversation's  broken  thread  swept 
back  to  its  channel. 

"  You  were  saying  —  about  Lord  Dear- 
born? " — a  lady  in  a  sable  pelisse,  with  screwed, 
near-sighted  eyes,  cadenced  her  tone  to  the  in- 
quiring key. 

"  Ah,  yes  " — Mrs.  Prentiss  laughed — "  a  fas- 
cinating fellow  no  doubt,  no  doubt;  but  really, 
you  know,  my  dears,  it  is  quite  a  weight  off  our 
shoulders — mine  and  Fay's — to  have  him  safely 
back  in  Washington.  It  was  high  time  his  wife 
looked  after  him.  With  my  young  sister  and 
my  nieces  in  the  house " 

"Ah!" 

"  A  man  of  such  loose  habits,  such  profligate 
ideas,  was  quite  impossible,  haunting  my  house. 
He  can  not  understand,  of  course,  the  workings 
of  our  republican  institutions,  social  and  other- 
wise. The  little  girls  brought  up  in  our  pure 
72 


Mrs.  Clyde 

homes,  strangely  lacking  in  knowledge  of  evil, 
yet  with  their  freedom  of  manner,  of  behaviour, 
their  absence  of  all  guile — and  chaperons — are 
piquant  game  enough  for  his  lordship's  sated 
palate — fine  morsels,  no  doubt,  to  roll  under  his 
wicked,  wicked,  wicked  tongue.  After  all,  he 
understood  them  far  less  well  than  they  did  him. 
Why,  he  made  hot  love  to  Harriet  one  fine 
morning,  and  he  was  so  amazed  to  find  she  only 
laughed  in  his  face.  '  A  married  man,  forsooth,' 
says  she,  and  makes,  oh,  such  a  funny  face!  I 
tell  Fay  we  provincials  see  the  absurdity  of  these 
iniquitous  creatures,  who  think  they  gull  us,  far 
more  than  the  courtiers  and  Queen's  gentle- 
women who  flatter  them  at  home." 

"  I  find  him  distinguished-looking,"  said  a 
tentative  voice. 

"  As  there  is  a  young  girl  present,"  said  Mrs. 
Prentiss.  "  I  can  not  tell  you  all  the  dreadful, 
dreadful  things  I  have  heard  of  Dearborn. 
Even  if  one  only  believes  half  of  them,  they  are 
quite  terrifying.  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that, 
attractive  as  he  is,  distinguished  as  you  say,  his 
is  a  dark  and  dangerous  soul."  Then  she 
paused.  "  I  am  told  his  grandmother  was  a 

73 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Spanish  lady — as  alluring,  immoral  and  yellow 
as  a  French  novel.  I  must  confess  the  man  is 
agreeable.  I  suppose  one  must  stand  up  for 
one's  relations.  Dearborn  claims  cousinship 
with  us.  One  of  his  great  grandmothers  was  a 
Paulet;  so  was  mine.  Mine  made  a  foolish 
marriage  with  a  poor  young  officer.  They  set- 
tled in  New  Brunswick  and  voila.  I  have  her 
miniature." 

A  lady  who  had  been  silent,  but  who  had 
the  bursting  appearance  of  one  longing  for 
speech  found  opportunity.  "  I  came  from 
Washington  last  week,"  she  said,  "  and  there,  at 
the  Secretary  of  State's — the  great  banquet,  you 
know,  given  to  Lord  Elgin — I  met  Lady  Dear- 
born." There  was  a  movement  of  surprised  sus- 
pense. 

"  Is  she  as  beautiful  as  she  is  reputed? " 
asked  Mrs.  Prentiss.  "  Dearborn  has  promised 
to  bring  her  here  before  they  sail  away." 

"  She  is  the  most  beautiful  woman  I  have 
ever  beheld,"  said  the  speaker;  "  the  most  beau- 
tiful and  the  most  cold.  She  has  a  throat  and 
shoulders  of  alabaster  and  a  superb  head;  a  face 
like  a  flower.  Her  jewels  were  magnificent. 
74 


Mrs.  Clyde 

She  is  tall  and  stately.  She  managed  her  drap- 
eries as  if  they  had  been  a  cloud.  Her  voice  is 
musical.  She  has  the  hands  and  feet  of  a  Venus. 
She  looks  a  creature  made  all  of  ice  and  snow. 
We  talked  together.  She  travels  with  a  suite  of 
gentlemen  and  ladies,  of  men  and  maids.  She 
brought  Dearborn  a  large  dowry.  They  say  he  is 
making  havoc  of  her  wealth  and  his  own.  She 
was  the  most  exquisite  and  the  most  imposing 
mortal  I  ever  saw.  She  frightened  me  half  to 
death." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Mrs.  Prentiss,  not  without 
a  touch  of  irony,  "  whatever  shall  we  do  with  such 
a  visitor  in  our  dull  little  town!  The  suite,  I 
fear,  must  lodge  at  an  hotel.  I  promised  Dear- 
born his  wife  should  stay  with  us." 

"  She  was  most  simple  and  unaffected,"  said 
Lady  Dearborn's  adorer,  willing  to  tell  more, 
but  Mrs.  Dennison  Fay  Prentiss  yawned  and 
turned  the  subject  somewhat  abruptly.  Exag- 
gerated praise  rouses  antagonism.  She  felt  in- 
clined to  greater  leniency  toward  Dearborn's 
frailties. 

"  I  dare  say  her  perfections  bore  him,"  she 
said. 

75 


Mrs.  Clyde 

When  Gabriella  got  into  the  street  she  was 
filled  with  anger  and  shame.  Oh,  the  pitifulness 
of  it  all!  She  had  thought  to  bewilder  this  man 
with  her  magnificence  in  the  back  parlour  of 
Clara's  modest  dwelling  in  borrowed  finery! 
She  thought  of  his  diversion  when  he  should 
read  Mrs.  Devereux's  name  upon  the  mule! 
Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes.  Her  native  humour, 
however,  finally  came  to  her  relief,  and  a  peal 
of  wholesome  laughter  rang  through  the  De- 
cember twilight.  Clara  joined  in  with  shriller 
merriment,  which,  stifled,  broke  again,  again, 
and  yet  again,  until  their  eyes  were  wet  and 
their  little  noses  red. 

Nevertheless  a  lesson  had  been  learned  which 
never  was  erased  from  Gabriella's  memory.  If 
experience  is  a  flower  thick  set  with  thorns,  she 
had  plucked  it,  and  gratitude  is  the  best  philoso- 
phy for  bleeding  fingers.  Gabriella  possessed  a 
mind  which  can  be  taught  and  soon  forgets  the 
torment  of  such  teaching.  Such  characters  are, 
perhaps,  incapable  of  profound  suffering.  Their 
tears  and  smiles  lie  near  the  surface  and  leave 
few  ripples  after  them. 


76 


Mrs.  Clyde 

On  the  late  Monday  afternoon  when  Gabri- 
ella  was  spilled  from  the  dirty  railway  car  upon 
the  dreary  wooden  platform  of  Dunham  station, 
it  was  raining.  Her  sister  Ringletta  stood 
under  an  umbrella  awaiting  her.  The  moment 
Gabriella  looked  into  her  gentle  face  she  knew 
some  terrible  news  lay  hidden  beneath  her  smil- 
ing. 

"  Tell  me  at  once  what  has  happened."  She 
grasped  the  girl's  arm  and  drew  her  into  the 
doorway  of  the  waiting-room.  The  stove  gave 
out  its  noxious  breath  to  mix  with  an  atmos- 
phere of  stale  tobacco  and  the  odor  of  an  apple 
which  a  woman— who  swung  herself  back  and 
forth  in  a  rocking-chair — was  peeling.  Ga- 
briella has  never  smelt  apples  since  then  without 
a  vision  of  this  hour.  "  What  is  it?  " 

"  Hush.  Come  here."  Ringletta  led  her 
sister  to  a  deserted  corner.  "  The  new  mills 
have  fallen,"  she  said;  "  they  collapsed  at  twelve 
to-day." 

"  Papa! "  cried  Gabriella,  with  distended 
pupils. 

"He  is  safe,  thank  God!"  said  Ringletta, 
reverently. 

6  77 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"Walter!" 

"  How!  Walter!  Don't  you  know  he 
sailed?  A  winter  voyage  to  Manila,  Friday. 
\vhy — Gabriella!  What  do  you  mean?  We 
thought  he  went  down  to  say  good-bye  to  you." 

She  had  asked  him  not  to  speak  until  she 
reached  her  home  and  now "  My  engage- 
ment is  broken,"  said  Gabriella. 

"  Well!  "  Ringletta  raised  her  hands  to  her 
forehead  as  if  her  brain  refused  to  receive  any 
more  shocks. 

"  Never  mind  all  that  now,"  said  Gabriella, 
hurriedly.  "  We  will  have  time  enough  later 
to  discuss  my  affairs.  Tell  me  all  about  this 
horrible  calamity." 

Ringletta's  laughing  face  was  stern  with  its 
story.  Jogging  home  through  the  country  by- 
ways, drawn  by  the  old  brown  mare — Ringletta 
explained  the  team  was  bringing  up  the 
wounded  from  the  mills — she  recounted  her  tale 
of  woe.  "  We  sent  word  to  Mr.  Rush  not  to 
tell  you  on  the  train  " — Rush  was  the  conductor 
— "  I  thought  it  best  to  meet  you.  Papa  was 
not  at  the  mills,  nor  was  he  coming  home  to 
dinner.  He  was  in  his  office.  They  had  just 
78 


Mrs.  Clyde 

brought  him  a  bit  of  pie  and  some  buckwheat 
cakes  from  Malvern's  eating-house " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  gasped  Gabriella,  impatiently. 

"  For  his  dinner,"  continued  Ringletta. 
"  He  had  other  reasons,  other  anxieties,  to  keep 
him  at  his  desk  all  day.  I  will  tell  you  those 
later — it  is  dreadful,  too — but  not  so  bad  as  this 
— where  was  I?  "  Once  more  she  raised  her 
hand  to  her  white  brow. 

"  Well?     Well? " 

"  When  George  Deeves  came  running  from 
the  mills.  Why,  we  heard  it  clearly.  It  was 
awful.  We  thought  it  an  explosion.  We  knew 
not  what.  The  whole  earth  shook  and  trem- 
bled." 

"  When  did  the  operatives  begin  to  work? 
When  were  the  looms  set  in  order?  " 

"  Last  Friday — the  very  day  that  Walter 
sailed.  Everything  was  going  perfectly — the 
cotton  picked  and  carded  and  spun  on  the  mules, 
and  now — all  ruins!  When  papa  got  down 
there  it  was  awful:  the  factory  girls,  the  men, 
groaning,  dying — a  horror.  The  town  is  a 
grave;  our  house  a  hospital." 

"  Are  they  there?  "  asked  Gabriella. 
79 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Then  Ringletta,  overdone,  began  to  sob  soft- 
ly in  her  plaid  shawl. 

"  Poor  dear,"  said  Gabriella,  comfortingly. 
"  And  mother?  " 

"  Wonderful  as  usual,"  said  Ringletta. 
"  And  Lydian  and  Mary  so  helpful.  Ellen, 
too,  is  good;  but,  oh!  " — and  Ringletta  began 
to  sob  again,  this  time  more  loudly — "  poor 
papa!  Poor  papa!  He  is  just  bowed  down. 
But  you  know  him,  Gella — never  a  word;  all  for 
others,  the  sufferers;  here  and  there  and  every- 
where— soothing  them,  sustaining  them;  but  he 
looks  twenty  years  older.  His  face  is  all  gray 
and  his  eyes  sunken.  Oh,  oh,  my  father!  my 
dear  father! " 

"  Wall,  now,  I  wouldn't  take  on  so,  Miss 
Ringletta,"  said  Ezekiel,  the  old  driver,  in  his 
slow  drawl,  turning  around  to  address  the  sis- 
ters. "  Seems  as  if  it  warn't  right  when  the 
Lord's  preserved  your  pa,  a  miracle  like,  and 
your  ma  and  yourselves,  all  safe  and  soun'  in 
limb — no,  no,  I  wouldn't.  Seems  like  flying  in 
the  face  of  Divine  Providence." 

"  Enoch  Plumb  had  a  narrow  escape,"  said 
Ringletta,  dabbing  her  eyes  and  sinking  into  de- 
80 


Mrs.  Clyde 

tail.  "  He  ran  out  of  the  mills  as  they  tottered, 
and  escaped.  He  was  there  making  notes  for 
his  paper." 

"  He's  a  writer  now,  Enoch,  ain't  he? " 
asked  Ezekiel. 

"  He  is  editor  of  the  Dunham  Budget," 
said  Ringletta.  "  He  bought  up  the  paper  last 
month." 

"  Wall,  now,  is  that  so?  Seems  as  if  I  ought 
to  have  heerd  it.  Them  writers  is  mighty 
sharp.  I  guess  his  legs  is  as  spry  as  his  brain. 
I've  heerd  tell  as  he  was  a  monstrous  sharp 
young  man."  Tragedy  had  sunk  to  the  collo- 
quial. 

"  But  what  was  the  cause? "  asked  Gabri- 
ella,  whose  nerves  were  not  yet  saturated  and 
who  craved  to  know  more. 

"  A  defect  in  the  construction.  The  weight 
was  too  great  for  the  girders.  Some  blame 
the  architect;  some  the  builder.  The  partition 
walls  fell.  I  hope  they  won't  blame  poor  papa. 
It  is  all  just  desperate." 

The  house  was,  indeed,  a  hospital.  "  I  see 
mamma  has  on  her  cap,"  said  Gabriella,  as  she 
recognised  her  mother's  flitting  form  in  the  hall 

81 


Mrs.  Clyde 

between  two  rows  of  mattresses,  on  which  lay — 
oh!  such  gruesome  burdens — and  the  girls 
laughed  in  spite  of  themselves.  Mrs.  Dunham 
never  wore  a  cap  except  in  time  of  trouble. 
Her  covered  locks  had  come,  in  the  Dunham 
household,  to  be  regarded  as  the  herald  of  dis- 
aster. The  last  time  she  had  donned  this  hel- 
met of  defence  Mary  and  Lydian  had  the  scarlet 
fever. 

Ringletta  had  alluded  to  another  misfortune 
which,  detaining  Mr.  Dunham  at  his  office,  had 
perhaps  saved  his  life.  He  was  wont  to  visit  the 
mill-hands  daily,  at  noon,  on  his  way  home  to 
dinner.  It  was  this:  Three  days  before  the 
downfall  of  the  factories  two  packet  ships,  lying 
deck  to  deck  in  Boston  harbour,  laden  with 
merchandise  which  he  owned,  had  burned  to  the 
water's  edge.  The  insurance  on  these  vessels 
had  expired  the  week  before!  Truly,  once  more 
the  well-known  proverb,  that  misfortunes  come 
not  singly,  seemed  to  be  proved. 

Gabriella  girded  herself  to  help  her  mother. 
The  announcement  of  her  broken  troth,  al- 
though met  with  disapproval  by  her  parents, 
seemed  now  but  a  drop  in  the  ocean  of  their 
82 


Mrs.  Clyde 

cares.  It  was  received  with  that  mute  resigna- 
tion which  is  sometimes  more  hard  to  bear  than 
an  outcry  of  reproach.  She  felt  she  had  added 
one  more  perplexity  to  their  full  cup  of  appre- 
hension. Of  course  Mr.  Dunham  was  blamed. 
He  ought  himself  to  have  tested  the  strength  of 
those  girders,  and  his  endurance  and  his  purse 
were  alike  strained  to  breaking.  He  bore  him- 
self with  simple  patience,  almost  with  majesty, 
walking  among  the  unfortunates  of  the  wreck 
with  the  serenity  of  injustice  nobly  borne,  but 
his  heart  was  broken. 

He  had,  at  a  great  sacrifice  of  capital,  built 
up  these  fabrics,  which  had  proved  an  edifice 
of  cards,  for  the  benefit  and  comfort  of  his 
employees.  He  had  hired  the  best  talent  that 
he  knew,  and  the  decisive  verdict  of  the  busy 
coroner,  "  the  work  of  God,"  as  death  after 
death  was  reported,  rang  in  his  tired  ears  like 
mockery.  And,  then,  the  man  was  crushed 
financially.  All  his  failures  came  at  one  blow. 
He  resigned  the  mayoralty.  If  his  townspeople 
distrusted  him,  he  would  not  rule  them.  One 
friend  was  stanch  and  loyal  to  him,  offering  aid 
and  support,  moral  and  material.  This  friend 

83 


.Mrs.  Clyde 

was  Mr.  Clyde.  He  was  a  manufacturer  of 
pianos — a  successful  one.  He  was  reputed  to 
be  very  rich.  He  was  a  bachelor,  a  man  of 
fifty-five  or  thereabouts.  He  came  daily  to  the 
Dunhams  to  see  what  service  he  could  offer 
them.  He  generally  saw  Gabriella.  She  would 
come  down,  a  wide  white  apron  pinned  over  her 
frock,  her  hair  caught  back  tightly  from  her 
ears,  and  bring  him  the  daily  bulletin.  There 
were  thirty  wounded  in  the  house.  As  she 
talked  to  him,  she  scraped  lint  or  rolled  band- 
ages. He  would  listen  to  what  she  told  him 
attentively  and  respectfully.  Sometimes  she 
sent  him  on  some  errand.  He  would  return  in 
the  afternoon  to  see  if  all  had  been  performed 
to  her  satisfaction. 

With  the  executive  ability  which  was  hers 
to  a  great  degree,  she  assumed  an  easy  leader- 
ship in  the  weary  household,  now  an  asylum. 
Each  had  her  duty,  and  Gabriella  ordered. 
Even  her  mother  marvelled.  Mr.  Clyde  had 
heard  of  her  broken  engagement.  All  Dunham 
knew  it  now,  but  the  talk  had  been  smothered 
under  more  important  topics.  He  was  pro- 
foundly impressed  with  the  girl's  efficiency. 
84 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Hers  was  that  strong  vitality  which,  when  it 
does  not  repel,  attracts.  It  attracted  him. 
Shy,  timid,  reserved  with  women,  he  felt  drawn 
to  this  magnificent  young  girl  who  could  stanch 
wounds  and  also  cause  them!  For  if  Mr. 
Clyde's  wound  was  not  so  deep  as  a  well,  it  was 
enough.  He  felt  it  bleeding  under  his  left  rib. 
As  the  mill-hands  departed,  convalescing,  cured 
or  on  their  biers,  he  watched  her.  Circum- 
stances hastened  the  avowals  of  his  strange 
wooing. 


CHAPTER   VII 

MRS.  CRANE  called  on  her  old  friend  Mrs. 
Dunham,  and  was  received  in  the  dining-room, 
the  only  vacant  spot.  She  had  heard  many  con- 
trary accounts  of  the  difficulty  which  had  fallen 
on  the  house  of  Dunham.  She  came  for  two 
reasons — to  ask  questions  and  to  offer  help. 
The  questions  were  soon  disposed  of.  Mrs. 
Dunham  gave  her  a  brief  epitome  of  the  situa- 
tion. The  help  was  a  proposition  that  before 
her  son  Baldwin  should  go  to  Manila  in  the 
spring,  he  should  make  the  fair  Ringletta  her 
daughter-in-law. 

"  He  has  long  loved  your  Gertrude,"  said 
Mrs.  Crane,  with  her  small,  spiritless  smile,  "  and 
we,  too,  are  fond  of  her.  When  he  leaves  us, 
we  are  childless.  A  cheerful  young  creature  in 
our  house  would  be  a  godsend.  She  could  help 
me  in  the  household,  and  Ball,  we  hope,  will  not 
be  absent  long.  The  firm  will  have  a  branch  in 
86 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Boston  soon.  It  is  in  a  flourishing  condition. 
He  has  an  excellent  opening.  Give  us  your 
Gertrude.  Bye  and  bye  he  will  offer  her  a  home 
of  her  own." 

Mrs.  Dunham  said  her  daughter  had  not 
confided  her  sentiments,  but  if  they  were  what 
Baldwin  hoped,  she  felt  sure  Mr.  Dunham's  con- 
sent was  gained  already.  She  felt  great  confi- 
dence in  Baldwin;  she  knew  him  to  be  a  young 
man  of  no  vices. 

"  We  have  tried  to  instil  morality  with  relig- 
ion," said  Mrs.  Crane.  "  Baldwin  has  princi- 
ples." 

"  Morality  is  religion,"  murmured  Mrs.  Dun- 
ham. "  Ringletta  is  an  efficient  girl.  She  is 
very  sensible."  Thus  the  housewives  crooned 
over  the  marketable  value  of  their  children. 
"  We  had  expected,"  said  Mrs.  Dunham,  look- 
ing at  Gabriella  and  sighing — her  eldest  daugh- 
ter was  sitting  at  the  window  hemming  a  sheet — 
"  we  had  expected  another  wedding  in  our  fam- 
ily in  the  spring,  but  Providence  has  ruled  it 
otherwise.  Gabriella's  heart  did  not  permit  her 
to  take  a  step,  the  wisdom  of  which  she  had 
long  questioned.  We  had  a  high  regard  for  Mr. 

87 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Perry,  and  regret,  while  we  have  not  tried  to 
influence,  her  decision."  Gabriella  stirred  upon 
her  stool.  "  Mr.  Dunham's  affairs,"  went  on 
the  mother,  "  are  in  a  bad  condition.  His  losses 
are  incalculable.  Our  expenses  have  been 
heavy.  I  think  the  girls  will  be  the  first  to  feel 
that  they  must  help  their  father.  If  women 
are  not  wives  and  mothers,"  she  gazed  at  Ga- 
briella with  a  condemning  melancholy,  "  they 
must  be  something  else.  Lydian  is  a  good  mu- 
sician; she  will  take  pupils.  Mary  must  help  in 
the  house,  if  indeed  we  can  keep  it,  which  seems 
doubtful.  I  am  not  so  strong  to  work  as  once 
I  was.  I  am  getting  old.  Ringletta  married, 
there  remains  Gabriella " 

"  Gabriella  is  so  accomplished,"  said  Mrs. 
Crane,  politely,  "  she  could  find  easily  a  posi- 
tion  " 

"  As  governess.  That  is  what  I  have 
thought  of,"  said  Mrs.  Dunham.  "  I  should 
prefer  she  should  get  scholars  here.  She  speaks 
French  nicely;  but  the  larger  salary  may  be  a 
necessity,  hard  as  the  separation  would  be  for 
me.  I  never  allow  my  predilections  to  interfere 
with  duty." 

88 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  Duty  is  a  great  word,"  said  Mrs.  Crane. 

"  A  greater  fact,"  said  Mrs.  Dunham. 

Gabriella  thought  of  the  Earl  of  Dearborn 
and  his  notions  of  duty;  of  her  visit  to  Clara 
Devereux,  its  pleasures,  perils,  trials  and  dis- 
comfitures, and  asked  herself  if  this  dull-eyed 
nurse  wasting  her  energies  in  vigils  at  sickbeds, 
haplessly  hemming  sheets  and  pillow-cases, 
while  her  mother  made  a  governess  of  her,  could 
be  the  same  Gabriella  of  Mrs.  Dennison  Fay 
Prentiss's  musicale  and  of  the  embroidered 
shoes! 

The  governess  of  antique  fiction  is  as  inevita- 
ble as  the  persecuted  lovers,  the  stern  parents, 
the  frivolous  maiden  aunt  and  the  persuasive, 
pervasive  villain.  It  is  possible  that  the  ro- 
mances of  her  youth — realism  was  not  yet  in 
vogue — had  impressed  upon  Mrs.  Dunham  this 
poetic  fantasy.  A  maiden  tall  and  reserved, 
clad  in  gray  merino,  making  havoc  of  the  hearts 
of  the  sons  of  all  the  houses  she  entered,  appear- 
ing at  balls  suddenly,  unbidden,  arrayed  in  skimp 
muslin,  her  hair  done  on  a  single  hairpin,  which, 
at  convenient  moments,  became  detached,  allow- 
ing her  chioma  di  Berenice  to  tumble  about  her 

89 


Mrs.  Clyde 

feet,  carrying  everything  before  her,  and  finally 
certain  to  marry  the  best  parti  of  the  season.  It 
may  be  just  possible  that  her  maternal  pride 
rocked  itself  on  these  beliefs,  but  it  is  more  prob- 
able that  her  thought  went  no  further  than  the 
wish  that  the  cleverest  of  her  children  should 
come  to  her  father's  rescue.  She  was  not 
worldly.  The  satisfactions  of  self  -  sacrifice 
which  fail  to  edify  unbalanced  and  undisciplined 
characters  had  never  failed  Mrs.  Dunham. 
Even  now,  moving  among  the  sufferers,  her 
face  wore  a  certain  beatitude.  The  commenda- 
tions of  her  friends  were  pleasant  in  her  ears. 
In  weighing  virtue  we  should  weigh  predilec- 
tion. Mrs.  Dunham  had  a  distinct  taste  for 
poulticing. 

"  You  are,  indeed,  a  helpmate  to  your  hus- 
band," said  Mrs.  Crane,  rising  to  depart. 

Mrs.  Dunham's  eyes  rolled  to  the  ceiling  and 
then  were  closed.  "  A  wife's  place  is  by  her 
husband's  side,"  she  murmured. 

Gabriella  slaved  early  and  late.     She  hardly 

ate  or  slept.     She  was   cheery   with   the   sick, 

bringing  to  their  weakness  her  breezy  presence, 

bright  looks  and  consoling  words;  but  at  night 

90 


Mrs.  Clyde 

when  she  crept  into  bed  and  lay  awake,  staring 
at  the  wall,  by  the  side  of  the  slumbering  Ring- 
letta,  in  the  small  attic  room,  to  which  they  were 
now  driven,  her  soul  within  her  raged  like  a  lion 
caught  and  caged.  "  Oh,  my  God,"  she  would 
cry  out  in  the  darkness,  "  I  can  not  bear  it!  " 
What?  The  fatigue,  the  turmoil,  the  anxieties 
of  the  past  weeks,  their  harsh,  hard  work,  their 
distasteful  tasks?  Why,  no.  These  kept  her 
alive — were  light  and  air,  food  for  her,  drink  to 
her  thirsting  lips.  No;  what  she  dreaded  was 
the  insignificance,  the  obscurity,  the  weariness 
of  her  future.  Poverty,  grinding  routine, 
Dunham.  A  tired  teacher's  place,  forcing  dul- 
lards to  a  knowledge  they  were  unworthy  to  pos- 
sess. The  mere  thought  chilled  and  killed  her. 
In  the  tenebrse  of  night,  "  Never,  never,  never!  " 
she  would  cry  aloud,  and  Ringletta,  with  pink, 
moist  lips  half  opened,  and  sunny  curls  upon  the 
pillow,  would  turn  and  moan  and  fret  and  ask  if 
any  one  had  called. 

Mrs.  Dunham  spoke  of  Mr.  Clyde.  "  He 
has  been  our  best  friend,"  she  said  to  Gabriella; 
"  an  admirable  person.  Your  papa  has  long  re- 
spected him.  He  is  not  appreciated  here  for  his 


Mrs.  Clyde 

full  worth.  The  young  people  laugh  at  his  pe- 
culiarities. I  often  wonder  why  he  is  so  kind 
to  us." 

Gabriella  bowed  her  head  behind  her  sheet- 
ing. "  What  a  fool  mother  is,"  she  thought. 
Then  she  looked  at  her  worn  face,  at  the  crow's 
feet  about  her  eyes,  and  remembering  where  she 
had  found  her  pleasures,  pitied  her. 

When  Mr.  Dunham,  his  wife  and  eldest 
daughter  were  left  alone  over  their  tea-table — 
Ringletta  was  supping  at  the  Cranes's — Lydian 
and  Mary  were  sitting  with  the  few  remaining 
operatives — "  Philetus  Clyde,"  he  said,  "  has 
offered  to  put  me  on  my  feet  again,  but  I  can 
not  hear  of  it.  The  obligation  is  too  great.  I 
should  sink  under  it.  It  seems  extraordinary," 
he  went  on  ruminating. 

Male  superiority  had  not  been  questioned  in 
those  days,  and  even  in  thought  Gabriella  would 
not  have  dared  accuse  her  father  of  obtuseness. 
"  Why,  it  all  lies  in  the  palm  of  my  hand;  how 
don't  they  see!  " 

That  very  night  Mr.  Clyde  asked  her  to  be 
his  wife.  The  youngsters  certainly  laughed  at 
him.  His  appearance  was  peculiar.  He  was  of 
92 


Mrs.  Clyde 

middle  height,  lank  and  graceless.  He  had  the 
eyes  and  hair  and  skin  of  an  Indian  chief — round 
red  brown  eyes  and  hair  worn  long,  black, 
straight,  on  either  side  of  his  thin  cheeks.  But 
if  his  colouring  was  Indian,  his  aspect  was  not 
ferocious.  It  was  most  mild  and  held  a  theo- 
logical suggestion.  He  resembled  a  country 
parson  more  than  an  aboriginal  savage.  He 
had  large,  heavy  hands,  forever  in  the  way,  and 
ungainly  feet.  He  always  dressed  with  scrupu- 
lous neatness  in  black  broadcloth,  with  a  white 
necktie.  His  health  was  excellent,  and  he 
walked  with  an  agile,  springing  step.  But  it  was 
not  the  effortless  spring  of  youth,  but  a  some- 
what jerky  counterfeit.  This  simulation  of  a 
youthful  tread  was  certainly  unconscious,  for 
Mr.  Clyde  was  incapable  of  the  minutest  insin- 
cerity. There  were  those  who  said  he  had  been 
born  old,  had  always  looked  the  same — awkward 
and  dry.  At  his  age  Dearborn  would  still  re- 
tain all  his  winsome,  incorrigible  fascinations — 
would  still  be  that  strange  mixture  of  natural- 
ness and  address,  of  folly  and  of  talent,  which 
marked  his  early  years.  He  would  be  a  danger- 
ous man  at  seventy,  for,  if  a  scamp,  he  was  a  skil- 
7  93 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ful  one,  and  would  remain  alert,  captivating,  elo- 
quent, charming  to  women. 

Age  is  a  matter  of  personality,  not  of  years. 
Mr.  Clyde  had  at  no  age  been  charming.  "  Are 
you  really  ninety  years  old?  "  asked  one  of  Fon- 
tenelle.  "  Not  I,  but  my  baptismal  certificate,", 
he  replied,  smiling.  Hercules  was  no  boy  when 
he  spun  at  Omphale's  feet;  Henry  the  Fourth 
was  sixty  when  he  fell  madly  in  love;  Antony 
was  middle-aged  when  he  captivated  Cleopatra. 

At  fifty-five  Philetus  Clyde  was  an  elderly 
man.  Of  melancholy  temperament,  he  had  al- 
ways been  serious,  even  in  childhood.  His  ori- 
gin was  humble.  He  was  a  plain  man  even  in 
Dunham,  where  polished  manners,  such  as  Mr. 
Dunham's  and  Walter  Perry's,  were  unusual. 
He  could  not  be  called  an  educated  man,  but  he 
was  not  illiterate.  Keenly  intelligent,  he  had 
profited  by  his  brief  years  of  schooling.  In  Bos- 
ton, he  might  be  seen  sometimes  in  his  great 
warerooms,  in  a  green  baize  apron,  dusting  his 
pianos  himself.  They  were  his  children.  They 
had  repaid  his  watchfulness.  He  was  very 
wealthy. 

He  called  on  the  very  evening  that  his  name 
94 


Mrs.  Clyde 

had  been  spoken  at  the  tea-table,  and  it  was 
then,  when  left  for  a  moment  alone  with  Gabri- 
ella,  that  he  told  her  of  his  devotion.  He  was 
very  modest.  "  I  know  there  is  nothing  in  me 
to  please  a  beautiful  young  lady  like  yourself," 
he  had  said.  "  But  if  you  will  give  your  little 
hand  into  my  keeping,  I  will  see  you  do  not  re- 
gret it." 

"  My  hands  are  not  little,"  said  Gabriella, 
laughing  and,  womanlike,  delaying.  She 
looked  down  at  her  slightly  roughened  fingers. 

"  They  are  lost  in  mine,"  he  said,  covering 
them  both  in  one  of  his. 

"  In  his  eyes  I  shall  be  perfect,"  she  thought. 
She  liked  his  timidity.  She  felt  a  sort  of  pro- 
tecting sentiment  toward  him,  which  continued 
until  death  parted  them. 

"  I  always  have  admired  you,"  he  went  on  in 
a  slow  monotone,  "  but  you  were  not  free,  and  I 
myself  had  no  idea  of  marriage.  Now  that  my 
only  sister  is  a  widow  and  has  come  home  to  live 
with  mother,  I  have  more  liberty.  We  will  live 
in  Boston,  if  you  like,  or  out  here;  you  can 
choose.  You  will  wish  to  go  into  society.  I 
don't  care  for  it  myself,  but  I  shan't  make  any 
95 


Mrs.  Clyde 

objection.  You  are  to  do  as  you're  a  mind  to. 
I  guess  I  shan't  stand  in  the  way  of  your  pleas- 
ures. I  have  seen  you  pretty  often  these 
months,  and  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
you  will  make  a  very  fine  sort  of  a  wife  for  any 
man  to  get.  I  have  got  plenty  of  money,  and  I 
hope  you  will  spend  it.  You  were  born  to  be  a 
queen.  I  hope  the  difference  in  our  ages  won't 
stand  in  my  light.  I  am  healthy  and  strong, 
and  never  was  sick  a  day  in  my  life.  My  family 
die  suddenly.  I  will  never  be  a  burden  on  you 
— anyhow,  I'll  see  to  that.  I  have  led  a  pretty 
clean  life;  but  I  don't  want  to  fatigue  you  talk- 
ing about  myself.  It  is  you  I  want  to  talk 
about."  He  spoke  with  no  inflections,  yet  Ga- 
briella  guessed  rather  than  heard  the  undercur- 
rent of  intense  feeling. 

If  Dearborn  ridiculed  her  knight  of  the 
cloak,  what  would  he  say  of  this  one!  But  Ga- 
briella  had  learned  much  since  then.  This  cheva- 
lier of  la  cote  mat  taillee  might  not  be  euphu- 
istic;  he  was  assuredly  not  vulgar — no  one  is 
whose  egotism  is  unobtrusive  and  whose  scheme 
of  ethics  lies  in  sympathy. 

Then  he  asked  would  she  marry  him. 
96 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Would  she  not — would  she  not?  It  was  es- 
cape, liberty,  hope.  She  sprang  at  it. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  will  marry  you." 

He  was  dazed.  He  could  not  speak  to  her, 
so  choked  was  he  with  ecstasy.  He  held  her  by 
the  wrist  a  moment,  and  covered  his  eyes  with 
his  other  hand.  "  I  swear  to  make  you  happy," 
he  said  hoarsely.  "  My  own  happiness  seems 
more  than  I  can  believe  in." 

She  stooped  suddenly  and  kissed  the  fingers 
which  detained  her.  She  felt  in  so  doing  as  if 
she  had  snapped  a  chain. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him,  "  I 
would  like  to  live  in  Boston,  if  you  do  not  ob- 
ject." 

He  assured  her  that  the  north  pole,  the  equa- 
tor, Japan  or  Oregon,  the  Nile,  Ganges  or  the 
Amazon — nay,  Greenland  or  Patagonia — all,  all, 
were  one  to  him,  were  hers;  the  world  was  hers, 
to  leave,  to  take,  to  have.  He  wanted  to  go 
right  in  and  tell  her  parents,  but  Gabriella  shook 
her  head.  She  would  rather  wait  till  he  had 
gone. 

When,  later,  she  did  tell  them,  there  was  con- 
sternation. Mr.  Dunham  was  of  too  elevated  a 
97 


Mrs.  Clyde 

mind  to  weigh  for  a  moment  his  daughter's  fu- 
ture in  the  scale  of  his  own  benefit,  however  the 
load  of  his  obligations  to  Mr.  Clyde  might  be 
lightened  if  this  gentleman  became  his  son-in- 
law  and  shoulder  to  shoulder  they  could  breast 
the  tide,  with  Gabriella  between  them.  He  did 
not  hesitate  a  moment  to  point  out  to  her  all  the 
disadvantages  of  the  union — the  disparity  of 
years,  of  tastes,  habits,  ideas.  He  did  not  dwell 
on  Mr.  Clyde's  position  as  inferior,  but  only  as 
—different. 

Mrs.  Dunham,  on  her  part,  was  strongly  op- 
posed. "  It  is  so  soon  after  your  other  engage- 
ment. The  world  will  think  you  flippant,  my 
daughter." 

"What  world?"  said  Gabriella. 

"  The  world  we  know,"  said  her  mother,  a 
trifle  impatiently.  "  Do  you  love  Mr.  Clyde?  " 
she  asked,  incredulous. 

"  Yes,"  said  Gabriella. 

Her  mother  smothered  an  ejaculation  of 
amazement.  "  He  has  large  wealth  I  am  told. 
Wealth  is  a  great  responsibility." 

"  I  will  try  and  bear  it,"  said  Gabriella,  with 
mock  gravity. 

98 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Her  father  laughed,  and  went  up  to  her  and 
pinched  her  ear.  This  broke  the  painful  tension 
a  little..  "Bless  me!"  he  said,  "mamma  for- 
gets Gabriella  has  been  to  Boston  lately  and  has 
become  a  woman  of  fashion.  She  has  danced  at 
Mrs.  Dennison  Fay  Prentiss's,  and  hobnobbed 
with  the  British  aristocracy;  and  now  that  she  is 
to  make  Philetus  our  son-in-law,  you  talk  to  her 
of  the  responsibilities  of  money.  Out  upon  you, 
mamma!  Our  little  girl  has  nothing  more  to 
learn  of  us."  His  satire,  begun  half  merrily, 
ended  in  sadness. 

"  I  think  it  is  awful,"  said  Mrs.  Dunham, 
shaking  her  head.  She  was  not  given  to  levity. 
Life  was  becoming  too  intricate;  it  always,  to 
her,  had  been  without  humour.  She  went  up- 
stairs and  put  on  her  cap. 


99 


CHAPTER   VIII 

SPRING  was  beginning  to  bud.  Its  appeas- 
ing breath  stirred  the  willows.  Tiny  flowers 
bathed  themselves  in  the  hidden  stream  as  it 
sped  swiftly  between  long  grasses.  The  oblique 
caress  of  a  white  sun  touched  the  wan  meadows 
into  colour.  The  woods  smelt  sweet.  The 
hard  frost-bitten  earth  about  the  tree  trunks 
grew  dank  and  soft,  melting  to  verdant  mosses. 
The  foot  sank  into  them  as  in  a  sponge.  In  the 
cemetery  the  graves  of  the  dead  mill-hands  were 
beginning  to  turn  green,  and  the  places  that  had 
known  them  knew  them  no  more. 

The  mills  were  working  again,  the  old  ones 
— while  the  new  ones  were  rebuilding.  One 
could  hear  once  more  the  whir  of  the  looms,  the 
swash  of  the  waters  turning  the  wheels.  Dun- 
ham was  rising  from  its  ashes.  It  had  dried  its 
tears;  the  last  funeral  bell  had  tolled.  The  town 

100 


Mrs.  Clyde 

had  no  time  to  waste,  or  its  rivals  would  out- 
grow it  and  leave  it  behind. 

A  warm,  bright  morning  and  clear,  a  brown 
bird  calling  to  its  mate  awoke  the  brides.  Ring- 
letta  and  Gabriella  were  married  on  the  same 
day,  with  only  a  few  friends  to  eat  their  wedding 
cake  and  to  drink  their  health  in  Ellen's  cherry 
wine.  There  was,  of  course,  other  cake  and 
other  wine.  The  "  collation "  furnished  by  a 
Boston  caterer  was  abundant  and  well  served. 
Mrs.  Dunham  wore  for  the  occasion  a  light  gray 
silk  and  white  lace  in  her  hair — she  looked  with 
longing  at  her  cap — a  diamond  brooch,  and 
carried  a  delicate  handkerchief  trimmed  with 
point  d'Alengon  between  her  thumb  and  index. 
Mr.  Dunham  was  resplendent  in  a  new  coat. 
The  bridesmaids  wore  dotted  muslins  over  blue, 
with  sashes.  Ellen  had  on  her  cashmere  gown. 
The  house  was  decked  with  laurel  leaves.  Prac- 
tised, indeed,  in  malice  could  have  been  the  eye 
which  should  discover  a  grain  of  dust  from  the 
well-ordered  garret  to  the  freshly  swept  cellar. 

The  expectations  of  the  small  company  were 
belied  only  in  such  particulars  as  had  to  do  with 
the  actors  and  not  with  the  stage  setting  of  the 
101 


Mrs.  Clyde 

function.  They  had  decided  that  the  shimmer- 
ing Ringletta  would  faint;  that  Baldwin  would 
be,  as  ever,  stalwart  and  manly;  that  Mr.  Clyde 
would  be  incoherent  and  uncouth,  and  Gabriella 
brazen.  Her  superfluity  of  naughtiness  in  the 
jilting  of  Walter  Perry  for  a  richer  suitor  did  not 
find  favour  in  Dunham.  She  was  considered  a 
heartless  hussy  in  a  community  which  was  a 
curious  mixture  of  practicality  and  sentiment. 
In  matters  of  the  heart  Dunham  demanded  that 
there  should  be  romance.  Anything  less 
shocked  its  prejudice  and  incurred  its  disap- 
proval. A  certain  amount  of  idealism  lies  in 
each  one  of  us.  Flowers  of  fancy  may  flourish 
in  the  most  arid  soil.  To  these  hard-featured 
matrons  and  shrewd-eyed  business  men  Gabri- 
ella's  action  was  altogether  abominable. 

Well,  nothing  was  as  they  expected.  Ball 
Crane  was  found  to  fill  the  role  of  the  average 
bridegroom.  He  was  jaundiced  with  terror, 
loutish,  hangdog,  dragged  his  legs,  and  when 
he  came  to  the  responses,  quite  unintelligible. 
There  were  responses  introduced,  for  the  King's 
Chapel  prayer-book,  at  Gabriella's  desire,  had 
been  procured.  Ringletta,  on  the  contrary, 
1 02 


Mrs.  Clyde 

looked  almost  as  stately  as  her  sister,  and  was 
far  more  composed.  In  fact,  she  displayed  dia- 
bolical aplomb,  and  was  as  unconcerned  as  if 
she  was  in  the  habit  of  being  married  every  day 
of  every  year.  Gabriella,  to  the  surprise  of  fam- 
ily and  friends,  was  flushed,  tremulous  and  al- 
most tearful,  while  Mr.  Clyde  covered  himself 
with  glory.  His  hair  had  been  cut  shorter. 
He  wore  a  suit  of  clothes  which  was  well  made 
and  fitted  him.  When  he  took  his  bride's  hand 
he  spoke  distinctly,  in  a  deep,  resonant  tone,  full 
of  energy  and  vigour,  as  if  he  really  wanted  her. 
Afterward  his  demeanour  was  so  modest,  so  gen- 
ial without  joviality,  so  self-effacing,  and  yet  so 
dignified,  that  the  neighbours  were  astonished 
as  well  as  impressed.  His  clerical  appearance 
may  have  suited  the  forms  of  religious  cere- 
mony. At  such  a  crisis  it  is  just  possible  that  a 
man's  soul  may  have  something  more  to  say 
than  his  figure. 

In  those  days,  and  in  the  cduntry,  the  con- 
vivial weddings  of  modern  life  were  unknown. 
Houses  were  not  crammed  with  disaffected  peo- 
ple who  came  to  criticise  and  jeer.  No  one  was 
asked  to  witness  so  solemn  an  office  of  church 
103 


Mrs.  Clyde 

and  state  unless  closely  allied  by  ties  of  blood  or 
of  affection  to  the  contracting  parties.  Brides 
did  not  drink  champagne,  sing  college  songs 
with  their  brother's  chums,  dance  till  their  veils 
got  awry,  romp  and  perspire.  Such  practices, 
while  innocent,  are  not  becoming;  at  least,  it 
was  not  thought  so  then.  The  bride  was  a 
being  set  apart.  She  did  not  descend  to  the 
level  of  her  guests.  A  certain  aureole  of  re- 
serve, donned  with  the  orange  wreath,  separated 
her  more  surely  from  rude  contact  than  her 
white  veil.  In  fact,  she  seemed  a  sacred  thing, 
immaculate.  If  she  consented  to  tread  a  meas- 
ure in  the  dance,  it  was  with  a  certain  loftiness 
and  condescension,  as  a  seraph  might  stoop 
earthward  for  a  brief  space  and  take  a  mortal  by 
the  hand. 

Ringletta  and  her  lover  clambered  into  a 
buggy  and  drove  off  eastward  to  pass  their 
honeymoon  five  miles  away.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Clyde  went  to  New  York.  She  looked  far 
handsomer  in  her  dark  travelling  dress  than  in 
her  wedding  finery,  and  she  was  quite  herself 
again  and  wreathed  in  smiles.  The  service  had 
unnerved  her,  but  the  reception  had  amused. 
104 


Mrs.  Clyde 

They  took  their  place  in  the  train  which  was 
to  convey  them  to  Springfield.  She  was  in  ex- 
cellent spirits,  laughing  and  chatting  gayly. 

Like  all  girls  who  had  been  at  school  in  a 
large  city,  while  inhabiting  its  suburbs,  Gabriella 
knew  many  persons  by  sight  and  by  repute,  to 
whom  she  was  unknown.  She  remembered 
that  a  certain  couple  were  to  be  wedded  at  Jamai- 
ca Plain  the  same  day  as  herself,  and  was  inter- 
ested when  she  saw  them  enter  the  car  and  seat 
themselves  within  her  visual  ray. 

The  girl  was  a  belle  in  Boston  and  a  beauty. 
Her  father  and  mother,  reputed  ambitious,  had 
not  been  altogether  satisfied  with  her  choice.  It 
had  fallen  on  a  young  Adonis,  a  gentleman  by 
birth  and  lineage,  but  so  ill-provided  with  this 
world's  goods  that  for  a  year  or  two  consent  had 
been  denied.  They  had  waited.  Finally  the 
spoiled  and  wilful  darling,  champing  at  the  bit 
of  custom,  had  won,  with  no  one  knew  what 
ominous  threats,  the  tardy  blessing  of  her  par- 
ents. To-day  priestly  voices  had  sanctioned 
the  bond.  Courageously  she  started  to  face 
hardships  with  the  man  she  had  chosen. 

Gabriella  had  often  talked  with  Clara  Deve- 
105 


Mrs.  Clyde 

reux  of  this  young  pair.  Their  romantic  at- 
tachment and  rebellion  had  been  the  fertile  sub- 
ject of  comment  in  Boston  upper  circles.  She, 
therefore,  looked  at  the  young  woman  now  with 
a  peculiar  curiosity — first  at  her  and  then  at  her 
husband.  The  girl  was  attired  quietly,  but  in 
the  latest  mode,  with  a  certain  jaunty  pictur- 
esqueness,  which  had  ahvays  characterized  her. 
She  wore  one  of  those  toilettes  which,  although 
sombre  in  colour  and  severe  in  cut,  manages  to 
startle,  or  is  it  the  wearer  who  so  arrests  the  eye 
and  turns  the  head  of  the  most  hurried  passer- 
by? Beauties  are  rarely  half  so  beautiful  as  their 
reputation  warrants.  Certainly  Ringletta  Dun- 
ham's face  was  infinitely  prettier  than  this  girl's, 
with  whose  loveliness  Boston,  New  York,  Wash- 
ington, and  Philadelphia  had  long  rung.  She 
was  slender  and  tall,  with  bright  brown  hair, 
ruddy  mouth,  eyes  neither  dark  nor  splendid,  of 
a  light-gray  green,  a  trifle  cruel,  and  the  irregu- 
lar piquant  physiognomy  held  something  illu- 
sive in  its  charm;  but  charm  there  certainly  was. 
Gabriella  felt  it. 

The  young  husband  was  indeed  beautiful, 
with  the  beauty  of  Hellenic  tradition.     Gabri- 
106 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ella,  who  had  never  seen  him  before,  scanned 
him  narrowly.  He  was  tall  as  an  Apollo,  spare 
as  a  Mercury.  Not  an  ounce  of  superfluous 
flesh  marred  the  ease  of  his  poses — as  uncon- 
sciously plastic  as  those  of  a  statue.  His  thick 
auburn  hair  grew  low  on  his  forehead,  his  nose 
was  finely  chiselled.  His  curved  lips  were  red 
and  luscious  like  some  fruits,  and  showed  the 
splendour  of  his  faultless  teeth  and  of  that  ani- 
malite  honnete  which  a  contemporary  French 
writer  has  so  happily  termed  essentially  Ameri- 
can. He  did,  in  fact,  add  to  these  remarkable 
gifts  of  physical  perfection  that  national  animal 
honesty  made  up  of  good  nature,  and  of  the  ten- 
derness and  gentleness  born  of  an  excellent  di- 
gestion and  a  cleanly  conscience.  There  was 
something  wholesome  about  him;  wholesome 
when  compared  with  Dearborn,  as  is  a  bunch  of 
May  blossoms  to  the  sickly  essence  tortured 
from  their  torn  petals. 

But  what  arrested  and  riveted  Gabriella's  at- 
tention was  less  the  individual  graces  of  the 
lovers  as  the  intangible  atmosphere  which 
seemed  to  envelop  them.  Whatever  callous- 
ness, whatever  trouble  or  hard  privation  of  ex- 
107 


Mrs.  Clyde 

perience  might  at  some  future  time  shatter  and 
break  the  spell,  to-day  was  theirs.  "  Love  well 
the  hour  and  let  it  go,"  might  almost  have  suf- 
ficed where  the  hour  was  so  rich.  Oblivious  of 
surroundings,  of  prying  eyes  and  watchful  com- 
ment, they  looked  at  one  another  and  were  glad. 
Their  gladness  overflowed.  Their  eyes  were 
glued  to  one  another's  faces.  Their  lips  seemed 
only  waiting  the  idle  hour  of  love  to  meet  in  a 
soft  kiss.  Now  and  again  his  hand  sought  hers 
and,  furtive,  pressed  it,  and  she  seemed  power- 
less even  in  maiden  modesty  to  draw  her  trem- 
bling fingers  from  his  touch.  Bye  and  bye,  as 
Gabriella  watched  them,  she  shrank  a  little,  pal- 
ing. She  felt  as  if  about  her  were  some  high 
prison  wall  of  her  own  building.  She  could 
look  down  on  moonlit  palaces  and  fairy  gardens, 
whose  flowering  walks  and  starry  rivers  reflected 
the  clear  radiance  of  northern  summer  nights, 
but  from  whose  pleasant  path  she  was  forever 
shut  out  and  debarred. 

"  Open  the  window,"  she  said  to  her  hus- 
band. "  I  am  stifling." 

It  is  the  empty  heart  that  views  the  love  of 
others  with  true  sympathy.  One  brimming 
1 08 


Mrs.  Clyde 

with  its  own  belittles  that  of  others,  whose  rap- 
tures in  comparison  seem  trivial  commonplaces. 
The  woman  who  is  herself  adored  wonders  her 
friend  can  be  satisfied  with  a  love  so  supine  and 
cold;  marvels  with  Lucian  that  a  man  should 
think  himself  a  god  because  a  one-eyed  dame 
so  sees  him.  She  looks  upon  the  vaunted  fidel- 
ity of  the  woman  as  Cleopatra  might  have 
looked  upon  the  constancy  of  Charmian;  of  the 
man  as  apocryphal,  not  proven,  probably  ephem- 
eral. One's  own  transcendent  experience  dwarfs 
that  of  other  people. 

Mrs.  Clyde  continued  to  watch  these  young 
creatures  with  febrile  eagerness.  She  ceased  to 
talk  and  laugh  and,  when  her  husband  spoke  to 
her,  answered  at  random.  Just  for  a  moment, 
perhaps  the  only  moment  of  her  life,  she  under- 
stood all  she  renounced;  she  saw  all  that  she 
forfeited.  She  had  not  truly  loved  Walter 
Perry,  and  now  she  would  never  pluck  this 
flower  of  Eden  poets  celebrate,  whose  perfume, 
if  it  harbour  poison,  is  still  so  sweet.  But  hers 
was  not  a  morbid  nature.  Realism  was  not  the 
less  a  fact  in  those  days  because  literature  had 
not  yet  named  it.  Gabriella  was  a  realist.  Pos- 
8  109 


Mrs.  Clyde 

itive  by  temperament,  she  cast  about  her  brain 
to  find  a  spot  of  vantage  on  which  her  tottering 
self-respect  might  safely  stand. 

We  all  make  excuses  to  ourselves  for  our 
base  actions,  persuading  ourselves  that  their  mo- 
tive holds  their  pardon.  And  had  her  action 
been  quite  base?  Answer,  who  dares.  Is  the 
blind  reaching  of  inanimate  plants  after  the  light 
reprehensible?  Is  the  animal  who  swims  to  save 
itself  blameworthy?  The  methods  of  a  char- 
acter will  perhaps  be  weighed  in  the  measure  of 
its  needs. 

"  I  did  it  for  papa,"  thought  Gabriella.  She 
thought  so  at  that  minute.  She  had  to  think  it. 
Was  she  sincere?  Dunham  opinion  was  already 
divided.  There  were  some  persons  who  in- 
sisted that  Gabriella  was  a  heroine;  that  she  had 
sacrificed  her  inclinations  to  save  her  father's 
credit.  Singleness  of  purpose  is  obviously  diffi- 
cult. There  may  have  been  in  this  surmise 
some  measure  of  verity. 


no 


CHAPTER    IX 

SOCIETY  in  Boston,  we  are  told,  was  not 
governed  fifty  years  ago  by  wealth,  nor  did  it 
necessarily  open  its  doors  to  talent,  unless,  in- 
deed, the  talent  was  educated — educated  at  Har- 
vard, not  elsewhere.  Dartmouth,  Bowdoin,  and 
even  Yale,  were  an  offence  in  its  nostrils.  The 
savour  of  orthodoxy  which  clung  about  these 
universities  made  them  distinctly  despicable  to 
Boston  eyes.  Lawyers,  poets,  philosophers  who 
hailed  from  them  were  viewed  distrustfully. 
Compact,  self-satisfied,  self-absorbed,  narrow, 
impregnable  in  its  sharp  provincial  exclusive- 
ness,  was  Boston  town. 

Into  this  citadel,  vigilantly  guarded  by  tra- 
dition on  the  one  side  and  habit  on  the  other, 
Mrs.  Philetus  Clyde  had  sworn  to  penetrate. 
Her  wedding  tour  had  extended  itself  to  Europe 
and  over  many  months.  She  had  taken  her 
husband  at  his  word.  She  helped  him  spend  his 
in 


Mrs.  Clyde 

money.  She  returned  to  the  seat  of  combat 
with  many  boxes  of  fine  gowns,  wraps,  bonnets, 
lingeries,  and  with  great  cases  filled  with  furni- 
ture, pictures,  statues,  hangings,  with  which  to 
deck  the  spacious  house  in  Beacon  Street  which 
was  prepared  for  her  reception.  If  in  these  mot- 
ley purchases  some  human  mistakes  had  been 
made,  Gabriella's  education,  on  the  whole,  fitted 
her  to  appreciate  beauty  and  art  when  she  should 
meet  them.  Although  her  taste  was  and  re- 
mained a  trifle  barbaric,  it  was  sufficiently  culti- 
vated to  avoid  grievous  blunder. 

Thus  equipped,  with  a  heart  beating  high 
with  courage,  a  body  vibrating  with  unspent 
activity,  a  will  nerved  to  warfare,  she  put  on  her 
breastplate  and  grasped  her  lance.  These  may 
have  been  a  Parisian  bonnet,  a  parasol  bought 
on  the  boulevards.  At  any  rate  she  armed  her- 
self. Is  not  a  lady's  dressing-room  an  armory? 
It  seems  strange  to  us  that  women  who  wore 
mantelets,  bavolets  and  pantalets  should  have 
been  alluring,  yet  we  are  assured  that  they  were 
so,  so  powerful  is  the  influence  of  sex. 

Her  secret  aspirations  she  confided  to  her 
whilom  friend  and  counsellor,  Mrs.  Charles  Dev- 
112 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ereux.  She  was  rather  surprised  to  find  that 
Clara  was  not  exceedingly  encouraging.  There 
was  even  a  suggestion  on  her  part  that  when 
the  helpless  took  the  helpless  by  the  hand  there 
were  nasty  ditches  about.  Now,  Gabriella  felt 
no  ditch  to  be  deep  enough  nor  muddy  enough 
to  frighten  her.  She  knew  in  herself  an  energy 
which  thrilled  at  ditches.  She  meant  to  leap 
them.  Her  nostrils  quivered  like  the  hunter's  at 
the  steeplechase.  She  threw  up  her  arms  great- 
ly distraught  at  Mrs.  Devereux's  supineness. 

"  In  England  they  give  what  are  called  ket- 
tledrums." 

"  Eh,  what?  "  said  Clara. 

"  Drums.  Kettledrums.  I  thought,  per- 
haps, I  might  have  one  for  our  housewarming. 
It  is  just  tea  in  the  afternoon  when  one  stays  at 
home." 

"  I  don't  think  it  would  do  at  all,"  said  Clara, 
anxiously.  "  It  would  not  be  understood. 
They  would  not  like  it." 

"  Who  would  not  like  it?  I  tell  you  I  know. 
Haven't  I  just  come  back  from  abroad?  This  is 
a  miserable  little  town  in  which  we  live,  my  dear 
Clara,  and  these  big  feeds  wherever  one  goes 


Mrs.  Clyde 

are  odious.  In  Paris  one  is  just  served  with  a 
glass  of  sirop,  or  of  wine,  a  patisserie,  and  conver- 
sation does  the  rest." 

"  I  think,"  said  Clara,  "  where  economy  is  no 
motive,  as  with  you,  I'd  stick  to  the  collation. 
Mrs.  Dennison  Fay  Prentiss  gave  one  of  those 
receptions  last  winter;  there  was  quite  a  meal 
served." 

"  Who's  talking  of  economy?  I  am  consid- 
ering how  to  do  something  new;  to  revolution- 
ize things." 

A  look  of  positive  terror  crept  into  Mrs. 
Devereux's  soft  eyes.  "  Well,"  she  repeated 
again,  wagging  her  head,  "  I  wouldn't." 

"  What  are  you  afraid  of?  They  can't  eat 
me." 

"  No,"  said  Clara,  "  they  can't  eat  you,  but 
they  can  decline  to  come  to  your — kettledrum." 

"  I  am  just  as  well  born  as  any  of  them. 
The  blood  of  more  than  one  Pilgrim  father  beats 
in  these  veins,"  cried  Gabriella,  dramatically. 

"  In  mine,  too,"  said  Clara,  with  a  sigh,  "  but 
somehow  it  don't  seem  to  count." 

"  I'll  make  it  count.  Are  not  you  invited 
about?  " 

114 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  Ye — es,"  said  Clara,  dubiously.  "  You 
see,  Charlie  had  acquaintances." 

"  If  they  are  afraid  of  Mr.  Clyde,"  spiritedly, 
"they  need  not  be.  He  wouldn't  touch  them; 
he  hates  society." 

"  But  you  can't  go  alone,"  said  Mrs.  Deve- 
reux,  decidedly. 

"  And  why  not,  pray?  " 

"  O  Gabriella!  remember  the  earl." 

It  is  a  privilege  of  friendship  to  make  itself 
thus  disagreeable.  Gabriella  blushed.  She 
wondered  how  much  Clara  knew  of  that  unpleas- 
ant episode.  She  had  never  told  her  all. 
There  are  scenes,  undoubtedly,  which  look  bet- 
ter sketched  than  painted;  outlined  than  shaded. 

"  What  has  the  earl  to  do  with  me  now?  " 

"  Young  women  have  to  be  very  prudent," 
said  Clara,  floundering. 

"  I  feel  in  me  the  pluck,"  said  Gabriella,  "  to 
snap  my  fingers  in  all  their  faces." 

"  I  would  not  snap  them  though,"  said  Clara. 
She  had  been  delighted  at  the  marriage  which 
would  bring  her  friend  to  Boston,  where  she  was 
lonely,  but  she  began  now  to  think  that  her 
peaceful  fireside  might  be  involved  in  dangers. 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  Don't  you  care  to  go  out?  " 

"  Not  much  any  more,  as  Charles  and  I  are 
domestic,  and  the  baby  coming " 

"Ah?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Are  you  glad?  " 

"  Enchanted." 

Mrs.'  Clyde's  attention  wandered.  "  But 
you  used  to  care,  at  first,  before " 

"Oh,  so — so;  not  much!  Married  women 
don't  have  much  fun." 

"  I  don't  want  to  flirt." 

"  Why,  my  dear,  of  course  not." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  The  European  wom- 
en do  it  frightfully  and  worse " 

"  How  wrong  of  them!  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  repeated  Gabriella. 

"  Why,  Gella! " 

"  I  suppose  they  get  pleasure  out  of  it." 

"  I  guess  they  must  be  unhappy." 

"  I  saw  a  lot  of  them  in  Paris.  They  looked 
happy  enough.  They  seemed  to  rather  pity  me. 
I  suppose  they  thought  I  was  having  a  pretty 
stupid  time  driving  about,  day  after  day,  all 
alone  with  Mr.  Clyde.  What  is  to  repay  us  for 
116 


Mrs.  Clyde 

being  stupid,  do  you  suppose,  if  society  does 
not?  We  ought  to  have — something." 

This  seemed  incontestable.  Clara  frowned. 
"  One  has  one's  own  husband's  admiration,  and 
then  intellectual  pursuits  and  children." 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  said  Gabriella,  restlessly. 
"  Of  course."  She  returned  to  the  charge. 
"  What  shall  we  do  for  the  housewarming?  " 

"  Must  you  have  one?  " 

"  What  a  question!     I've  got  to  begin." 

"  Where  is  the  haste  about  it?  " 

"  I  do  it  to  become  acquainted;  to  make  my 
position." 

"  It  is  so  difficult,"  said  Clara.  How  could 
she  tell  her  that  only  yesterday  Mrs.  Dennison 
Fay  Prentiss  had  met  her  at  the  milliner's  and 
had  asked  her  casually  if  her  friend,  Miss  Dun- 
ham, had  not  married  old  Clyde,  the  piano- 
maker,  and  if  it  was  their  house  in  Beacon  Street 
where  all  the  huge  furniture  was  going  in?  Her 
accent  upon  the  "  huge "  had  been  mocking. 
"  What  an  odd  match,"  she  had  said,  "  for  that 
good-looking  girl.  Where  did  she  pick  him 
up?  I  see  him  sometimes  in  his  warerooms 
when  I  stop  to  order  a  tuner.  He  seems  a  very 
117 


Mrs.  Clyde 

respectable  old  person."  The  words  had  been 
spoken  with  that  patronizing  inflection  which 
women  know  so  well  how  to  make  cruel. 
Should  she  tell  her?  She  dared  not.  She  her- 
self had  chafed,  for  Gabriella  was  her  friend,  and 
she  half  thought  that  Mrs.  Prentiss's  comments 
vaguely  pointed  a  personal  malice;  but  what  re- 
venge was  possible,  when  the  lady  swept  out 
suavely  begging  her  to  drop  in  some  early  after- 
noon. 

"  She  will  have  to  find  out  for  herself," 
moaned  Clara,  when  she  let  down  her  back  hair 
that  night  to  dress  for  supper. 

Mrs.  Clyde  finally  decided  to  risk  no  innova- 
tions. It  was  hard  to  crush  her  pioneering  pro- 
pensities, but  Clara,  Mr.  Devereux  and  Mr. 
Clyde  all  advised  caution,  and  she  unwillingly 
yielded  to  their  counsels.  She  probably  made 
a  mistake.  It  is  generally  wiser  to  follow  one's 
own  instincts  when  one  is  clever.  It  is  better 
to  have  a  successful  individuality  than  to  be  a 
poor  imitation  of  some  bigger  personage.  She 
decided  to  renounce  the  kettledrum,  which 
really  might  have  attracted  the  curious  as  a  nov- 
elty, and  give  an  evening  musicale.  She  hired 
118 


Mrs.  Clyde 

excellent  talent;  she  sent  for  her  sister  Lydian 
and  sandwiched  her  between  two  pianists  for  a 
song.  She  filled  her  house  with  flowers.  She 
dispatched  cards  to  Clara's  friends  and  to  the 
sisters  of  college  men  she  knew,  or  to  such  of 
her  schoolmates  as  were  desirable,  and  to  a  few, 
a  very  few,  of  Mr.  Clyde's  business  acquaint- 
ances. The  party  was  to  be  small — tentative — 
one  hundred  at  the  most  were  bidden. 

Mrs.  Dennison  Fay  Prentiss  headed  the  list. 
No  answer  having  come  from  this  lady,  she  sup- 
posed her  to  be  absent,  or  at  least  coming;  but 
it  may  here  be  stated  that  she  neither  answered, 
came  nor  called  afterward,  and  that  Mrs.  Clyde 
never  knew  that  she  had  received  her  card. 
Years  afterward,  when  Mrs.  Prentiss  was  glad  to 
come  to  Mrs.  Clyde's  receptions  at  Newport  or 
in  New  York,  she  sometimes  thought  she  would 
ask  and  disconcert  her,  for  then  she  could  afford 
to  embarrass  those  who  had  dared  to  snub  her 
now.  But  she  forgave  them  all.  Mrs.  Clyde 
never  nursed  rancour  where  it  was  inexpedient. 
In  fact,  she  had  no  tenacity  in  resentment. 
Wounds  healed  quickly  with  her  and  left  no 
scar. 

119 


Mrs.  Clyde 

I  say  that  one  hundred  were  invited.  Thirty- 
five  came.  The  company  looked  somewhat  thin, 
scattered  through  the  wide  rooms.  It  would 
have  sufficed,  however,  had  not  the  sexes  been 
mercilessly  unequal.  There  were  twenty-six 
men  and  only  nine  ladies,  and  of  these  seven 
were  young  girls,  the  other  two  their  mothers. 
The  younger  married  women  whom  she  had 
hoped  to  allure  were  conspicuously  absent. 
The  few  who  accepted  did  not  come.  The  men 
were  well  enough — a  motley  assortment.  There 
was  a  sprinkling  of  fashion. 

Mr.  Clyde,  with  abundant  locks  and  hands, 
stood  about  in  doorways  talking  with  them. 
They  wandered  about  examining  the  paintings 
and  conversing  together,  dropping  to  whispers 
when  host  or  hostess  passed  them.  It  is  in 
weighing  obstacles  that  valour  is  born;  in  the 
conquering  of  them,  fortified.  Any  one  who 
watched  Gabriella  on  that  evening,  who  was  not 
blind  or  prejudiced,  would  have  perceived  her 
real  capacity — a  capacity  not  to  be  lightly  set 
aside.  There  was  one  such  observer.  He  came 
in  quietly  just  as  a  shaggy  artist,  in  crumpled 
trousers,  with  a  picture  cord  for  a  cravat,  was 
120 


Mrs.  Clyde 

maltreating  a  sonata  of  Beethoven's.  He  leaned 
against  the  wall  and  saw. 

If  there  were  only  nine  women  in  Mrs. 
Clyde's  halls  upon  that  night,  she  was  not  one,  or 
two,  or  twenty  women,  but  a  thousand.  She 
flitted  here  and  there,  and  everywhere,  spoke  first 
to  this  group,  then  to  that,  pervasive,  cordial, 
kind,  at  ease.  She  broke  this  rank  and  file; 
consolidated  that;  ordered  another  song  when 
song  was  done;  asked  Mr.  Appleton,  a  racon- 
teur, to  tell  a  story;  begged  Miss  Lee,  who  had 
a  taste  for  acting,  to  speak  a  dialogue;  sent  for 
an  ice  for  the  parched  lady  on  the  stairs;  un- 
corked champagne  for  the  thirsty  gentlemen  in 
the  boudoir.  And  when  at  last  they  all  had 
gone,  they  said  to  each  other  on  the  sidewalk 
or  in  their  carriages  that,  after  all,  the  evening 
had  been  agreeably  passed  and  far  less  dreary 
than  it  promised. 

When  Mr.  Clyde,  having  himself  carefully 
extinguished  the  candles — early  habits  of  thrift 
are  not  easily  discarded — and  seen  to  it  that  the 
doors  were  safely  locked  and  barred,  sought  his 
young  wife  in  the  library,  she  was  still  standing 
where  he  had  left  her.  She  had  then  been  smil- 
121 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ing  to  speed  her  last  guests — smiling  and  bow- 
ing from  under  her  diamonds,  with  a  lingering 
good-night  for  one,  a  vivacious  repartee  for  an- 
other. The  fire,  which  then  burned  brightly, 
had  fallen  low.  The  room  was  heavy  with  its 
warmth  and  with  the  smell  of  jasmine  and  of 
roses.  The  lights  sputtered  in  their  sockets  in 
the  Louis  Seize  candelabra,  which  Mr.  Clyde  had 
bought  in  Paris.  He  came  up  and  stood  before 
her. 

"  I  was  sorry,"  he  began.  A  muffled  sound 
aroused  him.  He  looked  up  at  her.  He  saw 
that  she  was  weeping.  "  Never  mind,  my 
dear,"  he  said,  gently.  "  Never  mind;  I  think 
many  of  the  ladies  are  away  now — in  New  York 
— perhaps — or  travelling — or — Europe."  He 
became  somewhat  confused,  and  looked  help- 
lessly about. 

"  It  will  go  off  better  another  time,  I  am 
sure,  or  perhaps,"  he  smiled,  "  there  will  be  no 
other  time?  You  have  had  enough  of  it?  " 

She  gazed  at  him  with  a  mixture  of  con- 
tempt and  admiration — at  his  lank  person,  in  its 
loosely  hung  dress  coat;  his  high  stock,  which 
was  a  trifle  crooked;  his  large  white  gloves. 
122 


Mrs.  Clyde 

His  kindly  eyes  had  something  in  them  so  pa- 
thetic that  she  was  stirred  to  that  transient  ten- 
derness which  we  feel  for  harmless  creatures 
which  have  been  bruised  or  injured  and  we 
would  fain  protect.  She  knew  her  dignity  was 
his,  and  that  the  insult  which  she  bore  in  her 
heart  had  pierced  his  too.  She  remembered 
how  delicate  he  was  with  her,  in  spite  of  his  un- 
gainliness,  and  her  quick  impulse,  her  sharp  in- 
sight, her  bright  intellect,  seized,  understood 
and  valued  that  something  noble  in  him,  which 
on  his  marriage  morning  had  impressed  Dun- 
ham. 

There  is  a  degree  of  dissimilarity  of  tempera- 
ment which  precludes  clashing.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Clyde  were  and  always  remained  the  best  of 
friends. 

"  Or  will  there  be  no  other  time?  "  he  had 
asked  her. 

"  There  will  be  another  time,"  she  said  slow- 
ly, and  she  felt,  if  not  for  herself,  then  for  him. 

"  Now — directly?  "  he  asked,  as  if  alarmed. 

She   did   not   answer,  but   drawing  off  her 
gloves  rolled  them  together  carefully,  and  then 
brushing  by  him,  went  out  and  up  the  stairs. 
123 


Mrs.  Clyde 

We  have  said  that  there  was  an  observer  who 
had  keenly  marked  every  movement  every  ma- 
noeuvre in  the  desperate  game  the  new  hostess 
had  played.  Beneath  the  laughing  mask  she 
wore,  he  had  caught  the  anguish  in  her  eye. 
The  trembling  of  her  fingers  had  been  betrayed 
to  him  by  the  irregular  beatings  of  her  fan.  The 
unflagging  bravery  of  the  performance  had 
filled  him  with  immense  respect.  This  was 
Philip  Remington,  prince  of  good  fellows,  of 
diners-out,  of  bachelors-about-town — unscru- 
pulous of  speech,  discreet  in  conduct,  a  type 
which  women  like  but  never  love,  withal  de- 
lightful. 

"  If  that  young  woman  does  not  get  what 
she  wants,"  he  said  at  luncheon  the  next  day  to 
Mrs.  Prentiss,  "  let  the  earth  swallow  us  all.  My 
dear  madam,  make  no  mistake.  Last  evening 
made  me  her  vassal.  The  fact  is  this  place  is 
too  small  for  her.  She  will  vanish  some  day 
into  vast  space  and  leave  us  all  star-gazing 
after  her.  Thanks;  another  flapjack,  if  you 
please." 

"  Who  is  he  talking  about?  Will  you  tell 
me? "  said  Mrs. .  Prentiss  to  her  sister.  She 
124 


Mrs.  Clyde 

knew  very  well.  "  Is  it  of  that  Dunham  girl 
who  married  Clyde,  the  piano-maker?  " 

"  It  is  even  of  the  Dunham*  girl,  who  is  now 
Mrs.  Clyde,  I  speak." 

"Well!" 

"  Well?  " 

"  He  wears  a  green  baize  apron  in  his  shop." 

"  That  apron,  Mrs.  Prentiss,  will  not  pro- 
tect him.  I  would  not  give  a  fig-leaf  for  it. 
Poor  Clyde  is  doomed  to  publicity.  The  die 
is  cast." 

"  Fie!  "  said  Mrs.  Prentiss. 

"Why,  what  have  I  said?" 

"  Who  was  there?  " 

"  I  was." 

"  Oh,  you !  To  be  amused,  you  would  play 
with  Satan,  if  only  he  would  have  his  tail  and 
horns  in  curl  papers." 

"  I  did  not  play  with  Satan.  I  went  to  scoff 
and  I  remained  to  pray." 

"  How  are  the  altars?  " 

"  Monstrous  smart;  decked  with  flowers  and 
lighted  for  sacrifice,  only  awaiting  a  high 
priestess  like  yourself." 

"  They  will  have  to  wait  then.  Will  you 
9  125 


Mrs.  Clyde 

try  the  sudden  deaths,  or  these  Waterloo 
cakes?  I  got  the  recipe  in  London.  Fay  likes 
them." 

"  By  the  way,  why  was  not  Fay  there?  I 
did  not  see  him." 

Fay,  who  never  spoke,  grunted  and  took  an- 
other cake.  Never  to  speak  can  not  be  ac- 
counted a  serious  vice.  Fay  was  one  of  those 
exasperating  husbands  who  have  every  fault, 
but  no  vices.  Because  of  this  exemption  they 
claim  a  general  absolution  for  making  the  lives 
of  others  disagreeable  and  difficult. 

"  There  were  men  and  women." 

"  That  is  usual,  is  it  not?  Were  the  Pick- 
mans,  Hutchinsons,  Wentworths,  Dudleys, 
Gorges,  there?  " 

"  Hem — hem,  it  was  a  little  thin.  They  did 
not  absolutely  flock.  Lord,  how  hateful  you 
women  are  to  one  another!  " 

"  One  must  defend  oneself." 

"  Are  sisters  of  charity  kind  to  each  other,  I 
wonder?  " 

"  Why,  what  have  they  to  fear,  will  you  tell 
me — out  of  the  world  and  no  men  about?  Why 
should  not  they  be  kind  to  each  other?  It  is  all 
126 


Mrs.  Clyde 

the  fault  of  men.  I  was  in  a  car  the  other  day 
when  a  scrawny,  pale  woman  got  in  with,  oh, 
such  a  pretty  baby  in  her  arms!  By  and  bye  a 
girl  sat  down  in  the  seat  next  her,  a  girl — well,  I 
won't  go  into  details — she  was  very  good-look- 
ing and  very  finely  dressed;  there  was  not 
much  doubt  about  what  she  was — how  unmis- 
takable it  is — and  she  noticed  the  baby,  and  after 
a  while  asked  very  sweetly  if  she  might  hold 
it.  Its  mother  looked  at  her  a  moment 
and  then — '  No,'  she  said,  '  you  shall  not  touch 
it.'  " 

There  was  an  exclamation  about  the  table: 
"  How  detestable!  How  pharisaical!  How 
shocking!  " 

When  she  could  be  heard,  "  I  sympathize," 
said  Mrs.  Prentiss,  "  entirely  with  the  pale 
woman.  Her  life  was  hideous,  squalid, 
wretched.  I  feel  sure  her  husband  beat  her.  He 
was  certainly  unfaithful.  I  could  see  it  in  the 
droop  of  her  whole  person.  This  girl,  who 
flaunted  her  plumes,  danced  all  day,  battened  on 
the  wages  others  earned,  why  should  she  touch 
the  mother's  one  and  only  flower,  born  in  what 
agony,  nurtured  in  what  pain!  No;  let  us  be 
127 


Mrs.  Clyde 

just.  I'd  pull  down  all  the  asylums  for  the  mag- 
dalens  and  make  agreeable  places  of  resort  for 
the  tired  mothers." 

"  Well  done,  thou  daughter  of  Puritanism!  " 
murmured  Mr.  Remington. 

"  I'd  endow  pleasure-grounds  and  create 
pensions  for  the  poor,  hard-worked  women 
whose  husbands  are  degraded  by  the  vices  we 
coddle." 

"  Your  theories,  Mrs.  Prentiss,  are,  unfortu- 
nately, not  practical,"  said  Mr.  Train,  who  was 
fond  of  the  cup  and  not  a  Galahad. 

She  had  spoken  bitterly.  There  were  those 
who  said  that  in  her  youth  she  had  loved  unwise- 
ly one  to  whom  the  finding  of  the  San  Greal 
would  have  been  denied;  that  he  had  forsaken 
her,  and  that  she  had  suffered.  However  this 
may  have  been,  a  moment's  silence  fell  upon  the 
company,  only  disturbed  by  the  heavy  mastica- 
tion of  the  master  of  the  house.  He  at  least  was 
comfortable. 

"  We  have  wandered  so  far  from  Mrs. 
Clyde,"  said  Mr.  Remington  at  last,  "that  I 
think  we  will  never  find  her  again." 

"  Not  so  far,  dear  Remington,"  said  Mrs. 
128 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Prentiss.  "  Don't  you  see  we  are  all  dying  of 
jealousy,  since  you  have  taken  her  up?  " 

"  But  seriously  now,  why  didn't  you  go  to 
her  party?  "  asked  Remington. 

"  I  am  giving  up  society,"  she  said,  making  a 
face  at  him. 


129 


CHAPTER    X 

MRS.  DENNISON  FAY  PRENTISS'S  allusion  to 
the  green  apron  might  have  been  omitted.  Mrs. 
Clyde  commanded  its  suppression.  Mr.  Clyde 
became  far  more  chary  of  showing  himself  in  his 
warerooms,  at  least  the  retail  ones,  relegating  the 
duty  of  receiving  orders  to  his  clerks.  To  please 
his  wife,  whom  he  was  beginning  to  think  quite 
the  most  wonderful  woman  in  the  world,  he 
would  have  sacrificed  many  aprons  and  half  of  his 
pianos.  As  the  pianos  brought  the  income, 
which  helped  his  brilliant  bird  to  preen  her  plum- 
age, and  as  Gabriella  was  eminently  judicious, 
she  did  not  ask  their  demolition. 

She  now  set  about  establishing  herself  solidly. 
She  took  a  pew  in  King's  Chapel,  which  had 
discarded  a  creed  but  kept  its  ritual.  She  gave 
a  series  of  musicales,  nothing  daunted  by  her 
first  failure.  To  these  she  allured  such  sporadic 
talent  as  could  be  drawn  from  the  rehearsals  of 
130 


Mrs.  Clyde 

the  music-hall.  She  subscribed  to  these  and  to 
the  concerts.  In  fact  where  money  could  admit 
her  she  was  always  seen — alas! 

The  men,  like  the  good  sheep  that  they  are, 
jumped  the  fence  and  herded  to  Mrs.  Clyde's 
soirees;  and  the  women,  like  naughty  goats, 
looked  over.  But  a  few  went,  of  course,  else  she 
must  have  closed  her  doors.  Many  more  would 
have  gone  had  she  chosen  to  be  catholic,  but  the 
pis  aller  did  not  suit  her.  She  accepted  rebuff 
with  such  amiability  as  lay  in  her.  Popularity 
with  the  gentlemen  is  a  poor  letter  of  introduc- 
tion to  the  favour  of  their  women.  Possibly  the 
men  in  this  case  would  have  been  equal  sufferers. 
Distinguishing  attentions  to  a  married  woman 
were  so  unheard  of  an  offence  in  those  days,  so 
heinous,  that  ostracism  would,  no  doubt,  have 
been  visited  on  the  delinquent.  Gabriella 
guessed  these  things;  but  what  was  she  to  do? 
Fortunately  for  her,  however,  her  success  with 
men  lay  in  a  field  entirely  outside  of  that  of  gal- 
lantry, nor  was  there  any  coquetry  in  her  rela- 
tions with  them.  They  seemed  to  find  her  im- 
mensely entertaining.  Her  house  was  always 
agreeable.  The  topics  broached  were  fertile  and 


Mrs.  Clyde 

spicy,  her  vivacity  tireless,  and,  above  all,  her 
personality  unique.  Men  were  men  in  Boston 
fifty  years  ago,  and  liked  to  be  amused. 

She  dined  in  the  evening  to  emulate  Mrs. 
Dennison  Fay  Prentiss,  whose  perfidy  she  had 
not  forgotten,  although  she  was  ready  to  con- 
done it.  She  put  her  dinner  half  an  hour  later, 
and  had  two  men  servants  instead  of  one. 

"  She  will  go  it  one  better  every  time,"  said 
Mr.  Remington,  originating  the  slang  phrase. 

Yet,  though  she  lived  very  well  and  even  lux- 
uriously, she  did  not  propose  to  appeal  to  the 
world  through  its  palate.  She  dared  ask  people 
to  a  cup  of  tea,  and  was  the  first  to  curtail  the 
abundance  of  the  banquet.  "  Congenial  people, 
that  is  the  secret,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  and  to 
divert  them."  She  would  have  liked  Sunday 
evenings,  but  compromised  upon  Saturday. 
Sunday  night  receptions  would  have  scandalized 
the  town,  which  closed  its  doors  after  the  mid- 
clay  meal  that  its  domestics  might  go  out  walk- 
ing, while  the  children  conned  the  catechism  of 
a  Luther  or  a  Channing,  or  were  conveyed  to 
Sunday  classes. 

These  Saturday  evenings  grew  into  a  certain 
132 


Mrs.  Clyde 

popularity.  Men  and  youths,  Cambridge  pro- 
fessors, flaneurs,  artists,  now  and  again  a  home- 
less foreigner,  to  whom  nothing  better  was  of- 
fered than  to  sup  at  Taft's  on  fish  and  game,  to 
drive  across  the  long  bridge  to  Parker's  tavern, 
or  attend  a  mediocre  theatrical  performance, 
found  their  way  to  the  Beacon  Street  abode. 
Half  a  dozen  clever  women — one  has  to  be 
clever  to  dare  breast  the  current,  still  cleverer  not 
to  be  swamped  by  it — dropped  in,  with  their 
husbands  or  their  daughters.  There  was  in- 
formal music,  and  cakes  and  wine. 

Lazy  women  who  will  not  take  the  trouble  to 
see  to  it  that  their  dinner  is  properly  ordered  are 
usually  dissatisfied  with  other  people's  dinners. 
None  are  so  mocking  at  entertainments  as  those 
who  never  entertain.  Women  incapable  of  the 
slightest  effort  or  mental  perseverance  always 
belittle  what  plodding  industry  accomplishes. 
It  is  the  workers  who  are  the  lenient  critics.  In- 
dolence, it  must  be  admitted,  was  not  a  Boston 
failing,  only  to  Mrs.  Clyde  it  seemed  all  work 
and  no  result.  She  wanted  result. 

"  All  their  spring,"  she  was  wont  to  say,  "  is 
wasted  hunting  moths  and  mice,  in  airing  cur- 
133 


Mrs.  Clyde 

tains  and  beating  carpets,  while  all  the  winter  is 
consumed  in  preparing  for  the  spring's  up- 
heaval." She  had  always  detested  household 
work.  She  could  now  leave  it  to  others.  Yet 
her  bringing  up  had  taught  her  the  worth  of 
money.  She  disliked  to  be  cheated.  She  was 
not  extravagant  and,  therefore,  not  popular  with 
the  valetaille,  to  whom  the  ostentation  of  the 
spendthrift  determines  his  value. 

But  in  her  drawing-rooms  she  knew  how  to 
make  men  laugh,  and  even  when  recounting  a 
wrangle  with  her  cook  or  footman,  she  did  so 
with  so  much  nerve  and  spirit  that  gaiety  was 
aroused  and  dulness  banished.  Mr.  Reming- 
ton, who  had  come  first  from  curiosity,  then 
from  interest,  had  now  become  attached  to  her. 
He  was  her  constant  visitor.  He  and  the  few 
women  who  had  discovered  her  were  loud  in  her 
praises. 

"  They  say  there  is  no  harm  in  her  at  all,"  said 
a  lady  to  Mrs.  Prentiss — their  doors  had  not  yet 
opened  to  the  newcomer — "  that  she  is  not  a  bit 
wicked." 

"  Who  ever  thought  she  was  wicked?  "  said 
Mrs.  Prentiss. 

134 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  When  men  are  so  delighted  with  a  married 
woman,  I  have  generally  supposed  she  must  be 
wicked." 

"  Folderol,"  said  Mrs.  Prentiss,  who  was  be- 
coming a  little  tired  of  Mrs.  Clyde.  "  She  makes 
them  laugh,  that  is  all,  and  we  are  a  solemn  lot, 
my  dear." 

"  They  say  she  receives  very  prettily." 

"  Well,  let  her,"  said  Mrs.  Prentiss,  shortly. 

"  Shall  you  call  upon  her?  " 

"  I  don't  know  her." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Remington  says  she  came  to 
your  ball  years  ago." 

"  I  believe  Charlie  Devereux  brought  her — 
yes,  once  when  she  was  a  girl.  The  rooms  were 
crowded.  I  did  not  remark  her." 

"  She  is  very  handsome." 

"  Is  she?     Poor  old  Clyde  isn't,  though." 

"  They  say  he  really  appears  wonderfully 
well." 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  have  such  a  figure- 
head at  my  dinner  table?  Let  him  stay  and  dust 
his  pianos,  where  he  belongs.  I  always  thought 
him  a  very  decent  old  creature." 

To  Mr.  Remington  Mrs.  Clyde  confided  all 
135 


Mrs.  Clyde 

her  misadventures  with  an  openness  which  was 
enchanting.  Toward  the  Devereuxs  she  had  be- 
come reticent,  and  deceived  Clara  as  to  her  social 
triumphs  to  the  stretched  limit  of  this  lady's 
credulity. 

"  I  can't  give  dinner  parties,"  she  said  to 
Remington,  "  because  Mr.  Clyde  hates  them." 
Their  eyes  met,  and  Gabriella  stifled  a  laugh  in 
her  cambric  handkerchief. 

"  That  is  an  excellent  reason." 

"  To  give,"  said  Gabriella,  whose  humour 
could  not  always  dissimulate.  She  preferred  for 
her  husband  the  looser  contact  of  the  soiree, 
where  mockers  would  observe  less  closely  his  un- 
fitness  for  light  pleasantry.  "  Poor  dear,"  she 
went  on,  "  my  Saturday  nights  do  not  bother 
him  much,  because  he  goes  at  seven  o'clock  to 
singing  school  at  the  little  chapel  he  supports  in 
Leverett  Street,  and  later  plays  cribbage  with 
an  old  uncle  who  lives  at  the  South  End,  close  to 
the  Deacon  house.  Why  did  Mr.  Deacon  build 
his  French  chateau  in  the  wrong  place,  I  won- 
der? " 

"  He  had  a  soul  above  location." 

Mr.  Remington  always  received  her  revela- 
136 


Mrs.  Clyde 

tions  with  due  heed,  remarking  now  that  a  phil- 
anthropic husband  had  advantages. 

With  the  self-respect  which  her  native  good 
sense  rendered  elastic  only  in  extreme  cases,  Mrs. 
Clyde  never  spoke  slightingly  of  her  husband. 
"  He  is  not  the  least  bit  a  man  of  the  world,"  she 
would  say,  "  but  he  is  very  able  for  all  that,  and  a 
great  support  to  me." 

"  Every  one  speaks  well  of  him,"  said  Mr. 
Remington. 

"  And  that  is  as  I  would  wish,"  she  answered 
very  charmingly.  "  He  did  not  have  early  ad- 
vantages like  my  father.  I  mean,  he  is  not  like 
papa,  so  fond  of  books,  scholarly." 

Mr.  Remington  had  once  met  her  father. 
He  had  met  everybody. 

"  Dear  papa,  had  he  possessed  more  ambition, 
he  would  have  been  a  senator  of  the  United 
States  by  this  time,  or  in  the  Cabinet,  or — or — or 
— something.  He  was  born  to  shine,  but  is  too 
retiring." 

"  I  remember  that  I  admired  him,"  said  Mr. 
Remington,  with  his  infinite  tact. 

"  Who  would  not?  "  She  turned  and  fixed 
him  with  her  dark  eyes,  which  now  flashed  defi- 
137 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ance.  "  Why  do  the  women  act  so?  Why  do 
they  treat  me  so?  Am  I  a  leper?  "  She  got 
up  and  paced  the  room  angrily,  with  a  spot  of 
colour  burning  on  her  cheeks  and  a  certain  hard- 
ness on  her  mouth,  which  was  the  least  attrac- 
tive of  her  features. 

"  She  has  got  a  temper,"  thought  Reming- 
ton, and  liked  her  for  it.  "  My  dear  Mrs.  Clyde," 
he  said  abruptly,  "  they  are  too  dull  to  realize 
what  they  lose." 

"  I  think  myself  that  they  are  short-sighted," 
she  answered,  reseating  herself  by  the  fire,  but 
uttering  the  words  with  an  earnestness  which 
brooded  purpose. 

Her  plans  of  warfare  were  hampered  in  the 
next  autumn  by  finding  herself  enceinte. 

Gabriella  was  wont  to  say  in  after  years  that 
a  woman  who  has  not  borne  a  child  knows  not 
the  meaning  of  existence.  It  is  to  be  supposed, 
therefore,  that  the  ordeal  did  not  pass  over  her 
without  significance.  However  meagre  were 
the  fulfilments  of  her  maternal  hopes,  however 
small  the  peace  which  motherhood  brought  to 
her,  it  nevertheless,  undoubtedly,  left  its  mark 
upon  her  nature.  She  always  retained  elans  of 
138 


Mrs.  Clyde 

generosity  and  sincere  kindness,  which  may  have 
been  the  fruits  of  this  experience.  She  passed 
the  summer  at  the  Nahant  House,  where  she 
was  practically  alone.  The  other  guests  did  not 
meet  her  requisitions.  The  owners  of  the  neigh- 
bouring cottages,  intimate  among  themselves, 
ignored  her. 

Her  parents  came  to  visit  her  in  Beacon 
Street  at  Thanksgiving  time.  They  had  far  too 
much  sagacity  to  be  overpowered  by  the  prosper- 
ity of  their  daughter,  yet  were  too  guileless  to 
perceive  that  to  have  everything  others  want  and 
not  what  one  wants  oneself  is  not  attainment. 
Mr.  Dunham  enjoyed  the  library.  Mrs.  Dun- 
ham asked  to  inspect  the  storeroom  and  the  linen 
closet,  whose  size  and  convenience  she  com- 
mended. When  they  said  farewell  at  last  and 
were  ensconced  in  the  smart  carriage,  with  its  liv- 
eried Englishmen  and  docked  horses,  which  con- 
veyed them  to  the  station — Boston  ideas  of  style 
lay  still  in  the  black-coated  Yankee  driver  and 
long-tailed  nags — they  looked  at  one  another 
and  smiled. 

"  Our  Gella  will  have  opportunities  for  self- 
culture  in  the  leisure  of  easy  circumstance,"  said 
139 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Mr.  Dunham.  "  I  advised  her  to  do  some  seri- 
ous reading  in  unoccupied  hours." 

"  Philetus  makes  her  a  fine  husband,"  said 
Mrs.  Dunham.  "  It  has  seemed  to  me  ex- 
traordinary she  should  have  preferred  him  to 
Walter  Perry.  Walter's  age  was  more  suit- 
able and  he  was-  more  brilliant,  but  our  affec- 
tions are  providential,  and  it  may  be  for  the 
best." 

"  Philetus  is  an  honourable  man."  said  Mr. 
Dunham.  "  My  obligations  to  him  are  incal- 
culable. He  came  to  me  in  my  need." 

"  He  came  to  us  in  our  dark  hour;  but  you 
will  repay  all  in  time,  I  trust.  Things,  I  believe, 
are  improving?  " 

"  Yes.  It  was  only  a  moment's  danger  he 
helped  me  to  bridge." 

"  I  must  say,"  said  Mrs.  Dunham,  settling 
her  bonnet,  "  that  as  a  housekeeper  Gabriella  is 
quite  up  to  the  mark.  Her  parlour  girl  is  a  good 
caretaker.  I  fear  her  cook  is  wasteful.  I  did 
not  like  the  men  servants;  they  are  less  neat 
than  girls.  I  hope  she  realizes  the  importance 
of  personal  supervision  in  such  a  large  estab- 
lishment. I  was  pleased  with  the  appearance 
140 


Mrs.  Clyde 

of  the  closets.  Her  shelves  are  arranged  as  I 
long  have  desired  for  myself.  She  appeared  to 
realize  the  responsibilities  of  wealth,  and  with 

new  duties "  She  longed  to  speak  to 

her  husband  of  the  impending  grandbaby,  but 
desisted.  It  would  have  seemed  to  her  im- 
modest. 

Mrs.  Clyde's  sisters  also  came  to  her.  She 
was  glad  to  see  her  people  come  and  glad  to  see 
them  go.  She  enjoyed  their  presence  as  we  do 
that  of  invalids  to  whom  we  carefully  conceal  the 
storm  and  stress  of  life.  Dimly  she  already  real- 
ized that  she  and  they  progressed  on  different 
paths.  In  fact  years  weakened  materially  the  tie 
which  bound  her  to  her  family,  and  while  there 
never  came  an  open  breach,  gradually,  by  tacit 
consent,  intercourse  became  infrequent.  Ring- 
letta's  husband  grew  into  a  successful  man,  and 
they  moved  into  a  house  of  their  own  in  Dun- 
ham. Lydian  married  well,  also  in  Dunham. 
Mary  remained  in  the  old  homestead  after  her 
mother  died,  caring  for  her  father,  who  lived  to  a 
ripe  old  age.  Gabriella  alone  became  known  in 
the  great  outside  world. 

When  Mr.  Clyde's  little  girl  was  born  and 
10  141 


Mrs.  Clyde 

the  tiny  pink  morsel  was  laid  by  the  nurse  in  its 
father's  arms,  there  was  no  prouder,  happier 
man  in  Boston  town.  He  knelt  beside  his  wife's 
side  in  chastened  gratitude  and  left  a  tear  upon 
her  hand. 


142 


CHAPTER    XI 

GABRIELLA  and  her  sister  Ringletta  had  as 
girls  been  taken  to  see  a  popular  actress  in  the 
role  of  The  Lady  of  Lyons.  They  had  then 
and  there  concluded  that  Bulwer's  heroine  was 
the  most  alluring  of  her  sex,  and  that  if  they  ever 
had  a  daughter  she  should  be  named  Pauline. 
The  whim  clung  to  Mrs.  Clyde's  fancy.  She 
named  her  baby  girl  Pauline,  to  which  she  added 
the  odd  cognomen  of  de  Lyons,  pronounced  in 
French.  She  liked  the  de.  At  eight  years  old 
Miss  Pauline  herself  concluded  that  she  was  a 
titled  personage,  to  whom  peculiar  homage  was 
due.  But,  it  may  be  added,  that  she  was  also 
imbued  with  the  obligations  of  the  noblesse  oblige. 
She  had  a  natural  courtesy  which  sometimes  as- 
tonished her  elders.  When  about  that  age  she 
learned  to  play  upon  the  piano  a  little  piece  so 
correctly  that  her  mother  often  called  upon  her 
to  give  it  to  the  company.  On  one  occasion  an- 
143 


Mrs.  Clyde 

other  little  girl  being  present  had  blundered 
through  a  waltz,  leaving  the  piano  discomfited 
with  her  mistakes.  Pauline,  as  usual,  was  invited 
to  execute  her  cheval  de  bataille.  Contrary  to 
expectation,  she  acquitted  herself  with  mediocre 
success.  On  being  reproved  by  her  mamma, 
who,  mortified  and  vexed,  said: 

"  Why,  Pauline,  you  knew  it  perfectly. 
What  was  the  matter  with  you?  " 

She  whispered  in  response:  "  Do  not  scold 
me,  dear  mamma.  She  played  so  badly  I 
thought  she  might  cry  if  I  played  better." 

Mr.  Remington,  who  was  present,  was  greatly 
impressed  by  this  exquisite  form  of  hospitality, 
and  spoke  of  it  afterward  to  her  mother  as  of  the 
keynote  of  a  character  which  would  some  day 
make  itself  felt.  Gabriella  understood  it  less 
well.  She  was  not  sure  if  such  unselfishness, 
such  Quixotic  abnegation,  might  not  arise  from  a 
tendency  to  self-effacement,  which  might  prove 
dangerous.  She  felt  that  the  invisible  and 
weightless  harness  she  meant  to  adjust  upon  her 
colt  might  yet  be  found  too  weighty,  and  get 
kicked  off.  In  fact  Miss  Pauline  evinced,  even 
at  this  tender  age,  a  decided  tendency  to  kicking, 
144 


Mrs.  Clyde 

in  which  unamiable  propensity  she  was  secretly 
abetted  by  Mr.  Remington  and  such  of  Mrs. 
Clyde's  gentlemen  friends  as  were  victims  of  the 
child's  very  pronounced  fascinations. 

That  social  distinctions  were  not  entirely  un- 
appreciated by  Pauline  was  made  evident  to  Mr. 
Remington  one  afternoon,  when  he  was  the  un- 
seen auditor  of  a  one-sided  dialogue  between 
Miss  Pauline  de  Lyons  and  her  doll. 

"  My  dear,"  she  was  saying  to  this  long-suf- 
fering puppet,  administering  at  the  same  time 
many  taps  and  raps  upon  her  skull,  "  I  called  you 
Clara  Devereux  yesterday  instead  of  Rosy,  be- 
cause Aunty  Clara  is  a  lady  and  Rosy  is  only  a 
nurse,  and  though  that  is  a  pretty  name,  I  must 
not  call  you  after  a  nurse.  I  like  Rosy,  but  I  am 
going  to  change  your  name  again.  You  have 
not  been  vaccinated  yet,  so  I  can.  When  little 
girls  haven't  been  vaccinated  their  names  can  be 
changed.  I'll  have  it  done  next  week.  You 
are  now  Mrs.  Dennison  Fay  Prentiss,  so,  miss, 
sit  up  and  look  grand.  Your  carriage  is  at  the 
door." 

Pauline  tossed  her  yellow  mane,  and  waived 
this  announcement,  propping  up  dolly  into  a 


Mrs.  Clyde 

standing  posture.  Mr.  Remington  pressed  for- 
ward, and  taking  the  little  one  in  his  arms,  leaned 
to  her  cheek. 

"  It  is  not  permitted,"  said  Pauline,  and  gave 
him  her  hand  to  kiss. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  the  Civil  War 
broke  out.  Mrs.  Clyde  found  her  hopes  more 
than  ever  dimmed  and  distanced.  She  wisely 
concluded  that  Europe  would  be  a  wider  and 
safer  field  of  action  than  her  own  distraught  land. 
She  therefore  persuaded  Mr.  Clyde,  while  these 
internecine  clouds  lowered,  that  their  daughter's 
education  required  the  advantages  of  music  and 
of  foreign  tongues,  which  Italy  and  France  alone 
could  furnish,  and  that  she  must  travel.  It  took 
her  exactly  eight  weeks  to  decide  him.  At  the 
expiration  of  this  period  he  stood  with  tears  roll- 
ing down  his  cheeks  at  the  grimy  New  York 
dock,  away  from  which  was  sailing  all  that  he  held 
most  precious.  Mrs.  Clyde,  in  a  very  bright 
bonnet,  fluttered  a  vigorous  handkerchief,  while 
the  nurse  held  up  little  Pauline  against  the  rail- 
ing. Long  after  her  golden  head  and  his  wife's 
scarlet  turban  had  disappeared,  Mr.  Clyde  still 
stood  in  the  cold,  drizzling  rain,  shivering  and 
146 


Mrs.  Clyde 

staring.  Then,  with  a  sigh,  drawing  his  heavy 
hand  across  his  wet  eyes,  he  buttoned  himself  up 
into  his  great  coat,  hailed  a  cab  and  went  back  to 
Boston. 

Mrs.  Clyde  decided  to  try  Italy.  She  had 
letters  to  the  American  Minister  at  Rome.  She 
wished  they  were  addressed  to  crowned  heads, 
cardinals,  the  Pope,  but  finding  this  impractica- 
ble, she  had  compromised  on  her  own  Legation. 
She  managed,  however,  through  untiring  activ- 
ity, to  collect  before  her  departure,  a  certain  num- 
ber of  introductory  documents  for  various  Euro- 
pean capitals.  These  lay  snugly  in  her  largest 
trunk,  between  her  velvet  pelisse  and  her  ermine 
tippet. 

As  the  good  ship  ploughed  the  waves  and 
lunged  hither  and  thither  in  the  trough  of  the 
chopping  sea,  Mrs.  Clyde  did  not  weep;  indeed, 
why  should  she?  She  was  an  excellent  sailor, 
and  her  visage  shone  and  her  heart  beat  high 
with  trust  in  herself  and  belief  in  destiny.  It  was 
this  consecutiveness  in  idea  which  marked  her 
for  victory.  The  wavering  ones  live  only  in  the 
hour.  Their  rare  triumphs  prove  nothing. 
There  are  weak  beings  to  whom  the  sufferings 
'47 


Mrs.  Clyde 

they  inflict  are  a  million  times  more  cruel  than 
those  they  themselves  must  bear.  The  remem- 
brance of  her  husband's  face,  forlorn  and  deso- 
late, left  no  tormenting  sting  in  the  heart  of 
his  valiant  spouse.  The  plenitude  of  life  was 
enough.  She  indulged  in  no  graceless  reverie, 
but  she  did  see  to  it  that  her  little  girl  was  cared 
for  and  that  the  maids  did  their  duty. 

Having  stopped  in  Paris  to  replenish  her 
wardrobe,  Mrs.  Clyde  told  her  courier  to  arrange 
for  Italy.  She  arrived  in  Rome  at  the  end  of 
March.  Lent  was  well  nigh  over,  and  the  Easter 
festivities  were  drawing  nigh. 

There  was  living  in  those  days  in  Rome  an 
American  lady  to  whom  Mrs.  Clyde  had  in  vain 
essayed  to  bring  an  introduction.  She  had  some- 
how failed.  International  marriages  were  less 
an  every-day  occurrence  then  than  now.  This 
lady  had  married  an  Italian  prince.  The  prince 
had  proved  a  poor  investment.  He  had  de- 
serted her,  and  was  now  travelling  on  the  Conti- 
nent with  an  impoverished  countess  of  similarly 
nomadic  tastes.  He  had  left  behind  him,  how- 
ever, besides  his  wife,  some  solid  advantages:  an 
old  palazzo  in  Rome,  whose  stately  grandeur  was 
148 


Mrs.  Clyde 

made  habitable  by  her  large  dowry;  a  villa  in  the 
Apennines,  and  some  family  plate  and  jewels. 
The  abandonment  of  these  material  advantages 
for  the  chance  and  peril  of  a  love  journey  had 
somewhat  re-established  him  in  the  minds  of  the 
sentimentalists.  The  conservative  element,  on 
the  contrary,  the  moralists,  blamed  him  severely, 
and  thought  a  man  who  forsook  beauty  and  inno- 
cence and  the  enjoyment  of  its  income  for  stinted 
rations  of  macaroni  and  polenta  must,  indeed  be 
shameless  and  desperately  wicked.  The  Princi- 
pessa  herself,  rather  to  the  surprise  of  her  female 
acquaintances,  who  had  been  wont  to  listen  awed 
to  the  details  of  the  Italian  husband's  perfidies, 
now  assumed  a  broken-winged  attitude,  lament- 
ing this  new  act  of  treachery  with  a  woe  tinged 
with  acrimony. 

"  I  should  think  it  would  be  almost  a  relief, 
my  dear,"  the  Minister's  wife  said  when  coming 
to  condole.  "  I  believe,  by  the  contract,  your 
money  is  all  settled  on  yourself." 

The  Princess  had  fixed  the  ambassadress  with 

her  large  dark  eyes,  but  her  lips  had  parted, 

exhibiting    her    white,    regular    teeth    with    an 

almost   wolfish   fierceness.     "  It   makes   me   so 

149 


Mrs.  Clyde 

angry  when  I  think  of  it,  I  could  tear  him  into 
shreds." 

"  But  I  thought  you  had  learned  to  hate 
him?  " 

"  Yes,  I  hate  him." 

"  Then?  " 

"  I  wished  him  to  come  in  and  dine  at  the 
table.  Was  that  much  to  demand  of  a  husband, 
I  ask  you?  " 

"  No— but " 

Then  she  turned  and  said  to  the  Minister's 
wife:  "  If  your  Theodoric  " — Theodoric  was  the 
Minister — "  walked  off  with,  say,  little  Nellie's 
governess,  or — your  maid — or  anything  like  that, 
wouldn't  you  mind?  This  Countess  Porpora 
is  a  nobody — mere  scuff — not  even  well-born." 

Then  the  Minister's  wife  had  felt  justly  an- 
noyed, and  answered  hotly  that  her  Theodoric 
had  more  important  pursuits,  with  a  nation's  hon- 
our on  his  shoulders,  while  Italian  princes  were 
proverbially  idlers  and  profligates. 

The  Princess  had  shaken  her  head  and  an- 
swered with  some  sharpness:  "  Men  are  men. 
I  believe  they  are  all  alike,  and  a  sorry  lot  they 
are.  I  am  glad,  my  dear,  you  have  drawn  the 
150 


Mrs.  Clyde 

only  prize,  but  it  is  always  well  to  be  on  the  alert. 
I  was  strangely  blind  and  am  now  punished." 
And  it  was  then  she  had  shown  her  teeth. 

The  Minister's  wife,  remembering  the  details 
of  the  Prince's  past  infidelities,  which  had  been 
unfolded  to  her  during  his  stormy  married  ex- 
perience, marvelled  greatly.  She  told  her  lord, 
in  the  sanctity  of  the  nuptial  chamber,  that  she 
feared  Aurelia  d'Istria  was  a  little  "  touched  " 
with  all  her  troubles,  and  she  mysteriously  laid 
an  ominous  finger  on  her  placid  brow. 

Notwithstanding  these  occasional  outbreaks 
of  outraged  human  nature,  the  Princess  d'Istria 
had  her  quieter  moments,  and  these  were  devoted 
to  keeping  up  her  position,  as  she  would  have 
styled  it. 

She  was  a  very  lovely  woman,  of  a  romantic, 
dark-eyed  personality,  tall  and  elegantly  made, 
and  with  an  unspotted  reputation.  It  had  be- 
come a  fashion  to  pet  and  coddle  her,  and  the 
church,  which  she  had  embraced  and  to  which 
she  had  generously  contributed  a  great  many 
Yankee  ducats,  smiled  on  this  new  daughter  and 
gave  her  its  benediction  and  bade  her  God-speed 
upon  her  way.  She  had  become  the  mode,  more 


Mrs.  Clyde 

even  than  before  her  husband's  escapade.  There 
are  persons  whose  ambitions  and  whose  tastes 
clash;  such  was  the  Princess.  Mrs.  Clyde's,  on 
the  contrary,  were  the  same.  The  Princess  had 
generally  followed  her  tastes.  She  did  not  care 
for  the  world,  and  had  avoided  it.  Now,  how- 
ever, there  was  a  wound  to  cover.  It  must  be 
said  for  her  that  her  honours  had  always  been 
more  conferred  than  sought  after,  and  she  ac- 
cepted them,  if  with  satisfaction,  without  elation. 
The  Princess  was  proud. 

"  You  ought  to  know  her,"  the  Minister  had 
said  to  Mrs.  Clyde  when  he  called  informally  in 
response  to  her  effusive  missive  from  Mr.  Rem- 
ington. Gabriella  explained  that  it  was  a  mere 
accident  that  she  had  no  letter  to  the  Princess. 

"  It  would  be  of  service  to  you;  she  is  a 
power  here,  but  I  dare  say  my  wife  can  manage 
it." 

Mrs.  Clyde  responded  that  she  sincerely 
hoped  so.  But  there  was  not  much  time  to  lose, 
and  the  Princess  d'Istria  made  no  sign — not 
much  time,  because  after  Easter  she  was  to  give 
a  great  ball,  at  which  all  Rome  was  bidden.  Mrs. 
Clyde  knew  that  her  expected  hold  on  Roman 
152  ' 


Mrs.  Clyde 

society  was  over  forever  if  her  own  compatriot 
left  her  out  on  this  occasion.  The  Minister  had 
given  her  a  dinner  party,  but  there  had  only  been 
a  few  ambulant  Americans,  and  Mrs.  Clyde  had 
felt  more  offended  than  pleased.  The  Minister's 
wife  was  inclined  to  put  on  airs  and  to  enjoy  her 
own  importance  hugely — an  importance  which 
was  small  enough.  Mrs.  Clyde's  stately  apart- 
ments in  a  great  palace,  where  she  speedily,  deftly 
and  delightfully  settled  herself,  were  empty  of 
visitors  early  or  late. 

Mrs.  Clyde  was  sadly  reflecting  on  these 
problems,  cursing  her  Legation  and  its  atrophy 
one  morning,  while  she  and  her  young  daughter 
were  being  rapidly  driven  to  the  shady  alleys  of 
the  Villa  Borghese.  They  left  their  carriage  at 
the  gate  to  saunter  in  the  leafy  alleys.  Annun- 
ziata,  Pauline's  new  Italian  nurse,  walked  close 
behind  them,  while,  at  a  more  respectful  distance 
followed  Giuseppe,  the  footman,  carrying  wraps. 
Gabriella  walked  with  her  head  thrown  back  and 
a  step  charged  with  portent.  She  had  come  to 
this  reposeful  spot  to  think.  Her  thought  was 
no  flaccid  introspection,  but  rather  that  of  the 
sibyl,  prophetic  of  augury.  Something  in  the 
153 


Mrs.  Clyde 

force  and  agility  of  her  movements  made  an  im- 
pression upon  a  languid  gentleman  who,  leaning 
against  a  broken  column,  was  smoking  a  ciga- 
rette, looking  about  him  for  a  sensation.  She 
held  her  little  girl  by  the  hand  and  followed  the 
path  which  skirts  the  road,  passing  through  the 
Egyptian  gateway.  She  looked  down  from  the 
artificial  ruin  upon  the  private  gardens,  rested  a 
moment  beside  the  fountain,  and  finally  reached 
the  Casino  through  shady  ways  of  evergreen 
and  oak.  She  did  not  pause  in  the  Atrio  to 
gaze  at  the  reliefs  of  Claudius's  arch  or  the  torso 
of  Pallas,  but  tripped  at  once  across  the  salon 
into  the  room  where  Canova's  Pauline  reclines. 

"  This  Venus  was  a  lady,  a  princess,"  she 
whispered  to  Pauline,  "  the  sister  of  a  great  em- 
peror. She  has  your  name." 

"  Why  has  she  no  clothes  on/'  said  Pauline, 
"  if  she  is  a  princess?  Why  does  she  go  naked?  " 

This  remark  greatly  amused  the  gentleman, 
who  had  been  for  some  time  following  them,  and 
who  was  now  staring  at  them  through  his  mono- 
cle across  the  balustrade. 

"  O  daughter  of  the  Pilgrims!  "  Mrs.  Clyde 
addressed  the  ambient  air  and  laughed.  An- 
154 


Mrs.  Clyde 

other  laugh  resounded  through  the  hall.  It  was 
evident  that  he  understood  English.  Their  eyes 
met.  Hers  were  full  of  mischief:  his  of  admira- 
tion. Pauline,  who  preferred  painting  to  sculp- 
ture, was  dragging  Annunziata  to  look  up  at 
Dosso  Dossi's  Apollo,  at  Caravaggio's  David. 

Count  Falconieri,  Lionello  Falconieri,  did,  in 
fact,  understand  English  and  spoke  it  fluently. 
He  had  passed  two  or  three  years  at  an  English 
school.  He  was  a  well-educated  follow,  a  trifle 
restless,  through  that  drop  of  Malatesta  blood 
bequeathed  to  him  by  an  ancestry  whose  fiefs  lay 
about  Fossombrone.  They  were  those  colonists 
of  the  Forum  Sempronii  who  fought  in  vain 
against  the  Goths  and  Longobards.  He  drew, 
perhaps  from  their  misfortunes,  that  element  of 
pathos  which  charms  women  and  those  changing 
moods  of  temper  which  seem  to  hold  them  in  a 
leash  of  exceptional  suffering  and  joy.  He  was 
beginning  to  tire  of  a  youth  spent  in  idle  dreams, 
tired  of  his  family's  pride,  which  thought,  like 
Joseph  II.,  that  to  meet  its  peers  it  must  descend 
into  Capuchin  crypts.  He  longed  amid  the  dust 
of  centuries  for  a  breath  of  something  fresh  and 
modern,  even  though  it  were  a  little  crude.  Re- 
155 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ligious  through  temperament  and  education,  his 
intellect  was  pagan,  and  the  absolution  of  the 
priest  scorched  his  heart,  which  he  felt  had  lied. 
He  thought  of  love  constantly,  like  many  young 
men  and  all  young  Latins.  His  ideals  were  high 
ones.  He  did  not  view  the  emergency  of  Tann- 
hauser  as  quite  legitimate.  Why  the  Venus  or 
the  Elizabeth?  Why  the  wanton  or  the  saint? 
Grottoes  of  dalliance  or  sackcloth  and  peas  in 
one's  shoes?  He  looked  for  a  woman  who 
should  be  at  once  honest  and  piquant.  He  was 
weary  of  the  passionate  unreason  of  the  Roman 
women,  their  quick  surrenderings  and  daily 
tyrannies,  followed  by  what  tears  of  remorse  and 
threats  of  vengeance!  His  existence  seemed  to 
have  been  reduced  to  the  nutritive  life  of  a  plant, 
such  a  sameness  had  fallen  upon  it.  His  Greek 
intellect  found  him  cold  in  the  morning  where 
his  Latin  fervor  had  been  kindled  the  night  be- 
fore. 

He  and  Mrs.  Clyde,  through  that  "  touch  of 
nature,"  of  wholesome  laughter,  fell  into  conver- 
sation. Some  semblance  of  convention  saved 
the  situation.  He  lent  his  catalogue  to  the  lady. 
He  begged  her  to  notice  the  artificiality  and 
156 


Mrs.  Clyde 

meanness  of  the  Venus  before  them  as  com- 
pared with  the  large  and  suave  serenity  of  the 
antique  models.  He  led  her  on  to  another 
room  to  examine  the  fine  ceiling  paintings  of 
Conca,  which  escape  the  notice  of  the  average 
traveller. 

Mrs.  Clyde  was  delighted.  She  enjoyed 
these  wonders  of  art  in  the  society  of  this  very 
agreeable  man — evidently  an  aristocrat — and 
when,  later,  they  found  they  should  meet  on  the 
morrow  at  the  "  jour  "  of  the  American  Minis- 
ter's wife,  they  exchanged  names. 

He  had  thought  her  to  be  English,  he  told 
her,  until  she  spoke  Italian  to  him,  which  she 
did  with  a  far  prettier  accent  than  her  British 
sisters. 

Mrs.  Clyde  had  none  of  that  New  England 
reserve  which  goes  mad  or  dies  but  never  reveals 
itself.  She  seemed  frankness  and  simplicity  it- 
self to  Lionello,  who  was  sick  of  mustiness  and 
mystery,  les  grands  gestes  and  their  consequences. 
There  was  a  strength  about  this  young  woman 
which  appealed  strongly  to  the  weakness  of  pur- 
pose he  knew  in  himself.  He  told  himself  that 
life  was  heavy  devoid  of  accidents  and  of  sur- 
157 


Mrs.  Clyde 

prises.  Mrs.  Clyde  was  both  of  these.  Be- 
fore they  parted  he  had  asked  permission  to 
be  formally  presented  to  her  on  the  following 
evening  and  then  to  be  allowed  to  call.  He 
patted  Pauline's  curls.  The  child  gave  him 
her  thin  ringers,  over  which  he  bowed  obei- 
sance. 

There  are  persons  who  seem  born  to  be  birds 
of  passage,  perpetually  migratory  and — even 
when  settled  in  their  own  cage — on  the  perch,  as 
it  were — invited,  never  inviting;  ever  spectators, 
never  participators;  recipients,  not  donors.  Mrs. 
Clyde  was  not  of  these.  She  had  the  genius  of 
installation.  When  Count  Falconieri  called 
upon  her,  after  their  brief  meeting  and  official  in- 
troduction at  the  Minister's,  he  was  impressed 
with  the  home-like  interior  she  had  already  cre- 
ated. She,  on  her  part,  found  his  manners  ad- 
mirable. He  was  not  one  of  those  furtive  men 
who  approach  women  as  if  they  feared  a  breach  of 
promise  suit  or  at  best  direct  entanglement.  He 
had  none  of  this  fatuity.  He  had  the  leisure  of 
the  man  of  the  world  who  fears  no  fetters,  but 
rather  invites  them;  who  is  not  bound  to  hours 
or  seasons,  and  does  not  give  to  society  the  faeces 
158 


Mrs.  Clyde 

of  his  exhaustion.  The  roturier  has  inherited  the 
fateful  habit  of  hurry;  his  conversation  is  tinged 
with  the  puff  and  snort  of  the  engine  pressing  to 
draw  its  load  of  early  passengers  into  the  haunts 
of  commerce. 

Falconieri's  leisure  and  gallantry  were  now 
put  at  Mrs.  Clyde's  disposal.  Nearly  every  after- 
noon he  came  to  ask  how  he  might  serve  her. 
When  she  did  not  send  him  on  some  errand  or 
allow  him  to  escort  her  on  a  sight-seeing  expedi- 
tion, he  stayed  late  in  her  drawing-rooms,  while 
she  flitted  in  and  out,  received  other  visitors, 
wrote  letters,  read  the  American  papers,  with 
their  heart-thrilling  tidings  of  armies  and  battles 
and  the  North's  early  defeats.  She  told  him 
many  things  of  that  distant  country,  of  which  his 
ignorance  greatly  amused  her. 

Mrs.  Clyde  was  not  a  Cleopatra.  She  did  not 
make  the  fatal  mistake  of  turning  the  prows  of 
her  galleys  away  from  Actium.  Straight  into 
the  haven  did  she  steer  on  the  second  visit  of  her 
new  acquaintance. 

"  Do  you  know  the  Princess  d'lstria?  "  she 
asked  him,  with  one  eye  on  the  servant  who  was 
159 


Mrs.  Clyde 

bringing  in  tea,  thin  slices  of  bread  and  butter 
and  a  flask  of  wine. 

The  twilight  was  nigh,  and  they  were  sitting 
in  her  pretty  boudoir  of  the  Palazzo  Frulini, 
where  she  dwelt. 


1 60 


CHAPTER    XII 

"  WHY,  she  is  my  relative,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  Through  her  husband,  of  course." 

Mrs.  Clyde  frowned.  This  was  not  what  she 
desired.  Aurelia  d'Istria's  husband's  harsh  rela- 
tives might  be  unfriendly. 

Lionello  saw  the  frown.  Latins  have  a 
quick  vision.  "  I  assure  you,"  he  said  with 
some  warmth,  "  we  are  her  friends.  Andrea — 
my  cousin,  that  is — is  a  bad  fellow,  a  scamp  do 
you  say?  We  take  her  hand,  we  go  to  the  ball 
— and  you,  do  you  go?  But  of  course — a  com- 
patriot." 

Mrs.  Clyde  flushed.  "No,"  she  said  after 
a  painful  pause;  "  I  do  not  go." 

"  Come,  die,  impossibile ! "  cried  Lionello, 
crestfallen. 

"  You  see,"  said  Mrs.  Clyde,  "  I  am  from 
Boston — Madame  d'Istria  is  a  New  Yorker;  she 
doesn't  know  me;  we  haven't  met." 
161 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"Boston!  New  York!  Are  they — ene- 
mies? "  asked  the  Count,  puzzled.  "  Is  the  war 
— then  between  Boston  and  New  York?  " 

Then  Mrs.  Clyde  explained,  laughing,  that 
there  was  no  war,  "  unless,  indeed,  the  Princess 
d'Istria  wants  one,"  she  added,  with  a  gleam  at 
him,  half  merry,  half  defiant — "  in  which 
case " 

He  groped  for  his  hat  and  seized  his  cane 
and  gloves.  "  I  go  at  once  to  see  Aurelia.  I 
make  all  well.  To-night  you  have  the  card,  die 
non  m'inganno" 

Mrs.  Clyde  nonchalantly  bade  him  be  seated. 
"  Take  a  glass  of  wine  first  to  fortify  yourself," 
she  said  to  him.  "  Perhaps  Madame  d'Istria 
will  not  be  so  easily  persuaded  to  ask  a  wom- 
an she  has  never  seen  to  her  party."  She 
would  not  appear  eager  though  the  heavens 
opened. 

The  Count  drank  the  wine.  She  lit  a  ciga- 
rette for  him,  blowing  on  it  a  little  with  her  firm 
red  lips.  He  seized  it  with  avidity  from  her  out- 
stretched fingers  and  placed  it  between  his  own. 
But  he  did  not  touch  her  hand;  he  was  too  ex- 
perienced. 

162 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  Mio  Lionello,"  said  Aurelia  d'Istria,  as  she 
greeted  him,  "  my  lists  are  closed." 

"  Sa,  cam  cugina,"  he  cried,  bending  before 
her,  "  you  must  then  open  them  again." 

He  had  forced  his  way  in,  waving  aside  the 
remonstrating  majordomo,  who  insisted  that  the 
Principessa  was  not  visible;  he  had  penetrated 
the  very  precincts  of  the  lady's  dressing-room. 
As  she  knew  her  peignoir  to  be  becoming  and 
her  hair  magnificent,  she  smiled  indulgently  at 
her  favourite  Roman  relative  across  the  coiffeur, 
who  was  combing  it,  and  her  maid,  who  held  the 
hot  irons. 

"  And,  then,  I  do  not  know  your  Mrs. 
Clyde." 

"  She  is  a  most  accomplished  and  distin- 
guished American  lady;  she  goes  to  the  Lega- 
tion." 

"Nonsense!  I  know  better.  What  does 
the  Legation  amount  to?  Some  people  do  man- 
age to  pose  themselves  in  spite  of  their  Lega- 
tion; they  have  to  be  clever,  for  it  is  generally 
a  handicap.  Mrs.  Prentiss  wrote  me  all  about 
her;  they  would  not  receive  her  in  Boston.  She 
is  a  country  girl  who  married  an  old  man  for  his 
163 


Mrs.  Clyde 

money,  and  she  has  got  no  position  to  boast 
of  anywhere." 

"  The  husband — is  he  very  old? "  asked 
Lionello,  interested. 

"  Not  old  enough,"  said  Madame  d'Istria, 
smiling,  "  to  have  made  her  a  widow,  apparently; 
but  I  assure  you  she  is  nobody  in  particular." 

"  What  I  comprehend  not,"  said  Lionello, 
"  is  that  in  a  great  republic  like  yours,  where 
rank  and  titles  are  not  regarded " 

"  Do  say  at  once,"  cried  Aurelia,  with  flash- 
ing eyes,  "  that  we  are  all  daughters  of  immi- 
grants who  worked  their  way  across  in  the  steer- 
age and  laid  stones  in  the  streets  on  their  arrival. 
If  this  is  what  you  mean,  don't  hesitate  to  say  it 
out;  I  adore  frankness,  an  unusual  trait  with 
you  Italians." 

"  You  jest,  ma  cousine"  said  Falconieri,  "  I 
have  had  the  honour  of  meeting  madame  your 
mother."  He  laughed,  displaying  a  row  of 
regular  white  teeth  under  his  short  dark  mus- 
tache. "  She  was  very  splendid;  she  looked  not 
like  an  immigrant  such  as  you  describe.  You 
know  there  have  been  empresses  who — emv- 
grated." 

164 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Aurelia  nodded  at  him  mollified.  "  Very 
well  said,  cugino  mio,  but  why  do  you  want  this 
person  at  my  soiree?  Are  you  making  love  to 
her?  " 

"  As  our  trysts  are  attended  with  the  young 
daughter,  her  nurse  and  a  valet  de  pied  every 
time,  I  think  so  far  they  are  innocent,  cara  cu- 
gina." 

"  I  must  admit,"  said  Madame  d'Istria, 
"  Mrs.  Prentiss  did  not  tell  me  that  Mrs.  Clyde 
was  fast  or  improper." 

"  She  is  a  dragon  of  virtue,"  said  the  Count, 
laughing,  "  at  least  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  and 
I  think  the  husband — while  he  is  foolish  to  allow 
so  handsome  a  lady  to  travel  unattended — need 
have  no  cause  for  grave  anxieties.  Does  he 
come  soon  to  take  her  home,  the  marito,  eh?  " 

"  I  really  know  nothing  about  them.  I 
fancy  her  quite  capable  of  transporting  herself 
back  unescorted  from  where  she  came." 

"  And  the  invitation — you  will  not  do  me 
this  little  favour?  " 

Now  Madame  d'Istria  liked  Lionello,  prob- 
ably for  exactly  the  same  reasons  that  many 
other  women  did,  and  she  intended  that  he 
165 


Mrs.  Clyde 

should  take  a  prominent  position  at  her  party. 
She  wished  the  Roman  world  to  know  that  if  her 
husband  had  forsaken  her  his  family  had  not, 
and  that  she  kept  their  support  and  their  sym- 
pathy. She  knew  Lionello  to  be  pampered, 
quick  of  temper,  sometimes  capricious  as  a 
woman,  and  she  pictured  him  punishing  her  for 
her  denial  by  a  sudden  departure  for  his  fiefs 
near  Fossombrone  on  the  day  of  her  fete  to  pass 
a  lonely  evening  at  his  castle,  sulking  away  his 
ill-humour  among  the  silk  factories  and  pretty 
maidens  of  Fanno.  If  he  were  spoiled,  however, 
she  was  not  ductile.  She  knew  her  worth  and 
intended  that  others  should,  and  she  had  no  idea 
of  throwing  wide  her  exclusive  portals  to  admit 
all  the  nomadic  Americans  who  pour  their  yearly 
quota  into  winter  cities. 

"Nous  verrons,"  she  said,  enigmatic.  She 
made  no  promise. 

"  It  will  be  all  right,"  he  replied  to  Mrs. 
Clyde's  inquiry  the  next  morning;  "  my  cousin 
is  to  rearrange  her  lists."  Then,  fearful  of  im- 
pending perplexities,  he  added:  "It  is  hardly  a 
ball;  only  a  small  affair  after  all."  But  Mrs. 
Clyde  knew  better. 

1 66 


Mrs.  Clyde 

She  wrote  to  her  husband  an  affectionate  let- 
ter: "  Count  Falconieri  is  our  almost  daily  visi- 
tor; he  is  devoted  to  Pauline.  If  she  were  a 
few  years  older  I  am  sure  she  would  be  a  count- 
ess. You  are  such  a  good  Yankee,  my  dear, 
you  would  not  care  for  that;  you  would  prefer 
for  her  a  good  American  business  man.  He  has 
some  money  and  large  landed  estates.  I  find 
these  foreign  gentlemen  agreeable,  they  have 
such  polished  manners  and  are  so  amiable  and 
amusing.  They  have  more  of  that  talk  which  is 
misnamed  '  small '  than  our  men — I  have  always 
thought  myself  it  required  a  great  deal  of  educa- 
tion and  talent.  I  won't  describe  Rome;  you 
have  been  here;  you  don't  care  for  a  guide- 
book letter.  It  is  very  instructive  for  Pauline, 
and  the  climate  is  delicious.  The  Count  reads 
the  poets  to  me  sometimes;  it  is  good  for  my 
Italian.  I  never  cared  much  to  be  read  aloud 
to;  it  makes  me  fidgety.  He  is  a  cousin,  by 
marriage,  of  Aurelia  d'Istria,  who  has  a  great 
position  here.  She  is  just  giving  a  ball;  he  says 
he  will  see  that  I  am  asked."  She  then  wrote: 
"  The  Romans  will,  I  hope,  prove  more  hospit- 
able than  the  Bostonians,"  but  she  erased  the 
167 


Mrs.  Clyde 

phrase.  Her  husband's  delicacy  had  never  per- 
mitted him  a  comment  on  her  social  fiasco  at 
home — if  indeed  he  felt  it  to  be  such.  She  did 
not  know.  If  she  had  been  a  queen  he  could 
not  have  taken  her  success  more  for  granted. 
She  respected  this  attitude  of  his,  and  decided  to 
avoid  giving  it  umbrage.  She  liked  that  he 
should  believe  that  she  had  arrived.  The  faith 
of  others  in  our  prowess  is  at  once  a  defense  and 
an  incentive. 

After  repeated  attacks,  undertaken  with  the 
subtlety  and  suppleness  of  a  fine  tact,  Falconieri 
wrung  a  tardy  card  from  the  Princess.  If  you 
don't  wish  to  grant  a  beggar  his  alms  don't 
receive  him.  The  Princess  had  received  Fal- 
conieri. 

Mrs.  Clyde  had  none  of  that  superfluous 
pride  which  cripples  endeavour  and  paralyzes  at- 
tainment. She  knew  that  a  late  invitation  was 
preferable  to  none  at  all,  having  tested  both 
cases.  She  also  knew  that  an  old  maid  who  has 
refused  a  great  many  offers  is  still  an  old  maid, 
and  that  there  are  spiteful  creatures  who,  when 
they  don't  meet  you  at  a  desirable  feast,  always 
infer  you  were  not  asked.  Even  an  invitation 
1 68 


Mrs.  Clyde 

framed  and  hung  on  a  wall  has  something  louche 
about  it,  and  may  have  been  borrowed,  stolen  or 
filched.  It  is  better  to  be  seen  dancing  at  the 
palace.  It  may  be  possible  that  she  felt  the  day 
was  not  far  distant  when  she  would  be  quits 
with  those  who  had  been  cruel.  When  it  did 
come  it  found  her  generous — or  was  it  wise? 
There  are  slights  it  is  best  never  to  acknowledge 
even  to  ourselves;  they  should  sink  into  the  ob- 
livion of  mistakes. 

Well — she  got  her  card!  From  that  night 
it  was  all  made  easy.  Falconieri  conducted  her 
to  supper.  She  chatted  with  marquises  and 
dukes,  chaffed  distinguished  prelates,  waltzed 
with  princes,  was  presented  to  the  greatest  lady 
in  Rome,  the  Marchesa  Valmontone,  who 
treated  her  with  condescending  courtesy. 

"  How  is  it  possible,"  she  whispered  to  her 
companion,  "  that  such  an  ugly  woman,  and 
with  no  appearance  of  youth,  should  be  the  belle 
of  your  society  here?  Why,  in  Boston  she 
would  be  relegated  to  the  dowagers'  dais,  and 
herself  sat  upon  as  an  antiquity." 

"  When  one  sits  upon  such  antiques,"  said 
the  Count,  "  one  should  do  so  with  reserve,  lest 
169 


Mrs.  Clyde 

they  crumble  under  us  and  hurl  us  to  the 
ground  and  hurt  us  more  than  we  do  them.  I 
will  present  you  to  her,  and  then  perhaps  your 
astonishment  will  cease." 

The  Marchesa  was  a  very  tall,  thin  woman, 
with  long,  sallow  cheeks,  red  hair,  which  fell 
over  her  deeply  set  yellow  eyes,  a  somewhat 
heavy  nose  and  a  mouth  at  once  sensual  and 
ruthless.  She  was  admirably  dressed  in  black 
velvet  and  diamonds.  She  was  viewing  the 
company  through  her  jewelled  lorgnette  on  the 
arm  of  the  English  ambassador.  Falconieri 
stopped  her. 

When  Gabriella  had  talked  to  Madame  Val- 
montone  for  five  minutes  she  felt  as  one  mes- 
merized; a  strange  fluid  seemed  to  emanate 
from  the  Marchesa's  whole  person,  enveloping, 
enticing,  dangerous.  One  felt  drugged,  help- 
less as  in  the  presence  of  some  influence  impos- 
sible to  understand,  combat  or  escape.  There 
was  a  perfume  about  her  hair,  her  handkerchief, 
her  garments,  which  was  unknown,  peculiar, 
faint  yet  agitating.  Her  penetrating  tones 
thrilled  the  heart;  the  touch  of  her  hot,  nervous 
hand  as  it  detained  you  shook  the  senses;  the 
170 


Mrs.  Clyde 

deep  glance  of  her  curious  eyes  exerted  a  sor- 
cery, which  at  the  same  moment  repelled  and 
fascinated. 

"  Take  me  away,"  sighed  Gabriella  to  Lion- 
ello  after  a  short  conversation,  during  which, 
absorbed  in  Madame  Valmontone's  extraordi- 
nary personality,  she  had  listened  so  entranced 
to  the  melody  of  her  voice  that  she  had  not 
heard  a  word  the  lady  had  spoken.  "  Take  me 
away  or  I  shall  faint;  she  stifles  me,  and  I 
adore  her."  And  although  later  she  shook  off 
somewhat  the  magnetic  spell  which  this  wom- 
an threw  over  her,  she  never  could  do  so  en- 
tirely. 

Falconieri  was  laughing.  "  That  woman," 
he  said,  "  thin,  yellow,  ugly,  as  you  say  it,  has 
awakened  and  still  awakens — though  as  you  see 
she  is  far  from  young — the  wildest  passions. 
Rome  is  full  of  the  victims  of  her  compelling 
charm.  I  do  not  know  why  or  how  I  escaped. 
She  treats  me,  and  always  has,  as  a  boy.  She 
did  not  deign  to  make  me  her  lover,  so  I  remain 
her  friend.  She  is  thoroughly  unprincipled,  yet 
not  incapable  of  nobility — she  is  a  grande  dame 
to  her  finger  nails." 

171 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  Tell  me  more  about  her.  How  is  she 
noble?  " 

"  Two  years  ago  her  husband  was  paralyzed. 
From  that  hour  she  has  been  absolutely  devoted 
to  him,  nursing  him  with  exemplary  fidelity." 

"  Really  faithful,  really  kind?  " 

"  Yes,  really.  To  her  adorers  she  says,  '  If  I 
could  have  deceived  a  jaloux  I  can  not  a  matheu- 
reux.  Voila,  my  friends,  you  have  my  last 
word.'  " 

"  If  she  ever  comes  to  New  England  she 
will  be  burned  for  a  witch." 

This  amused  Lionello  immensely,  and 
eventually  it  came  to  the  ears  of  the  Marchesa 
herself. 

"  Che  volete? "  she  said  one  day  to  Mrs. 
Clyde;  "  they  call  me  the  vampire,"  with  an  odd 
archness;  "  they  call  me  the  vampire  in  Rome 
here,  and  I  hear  you  say  that  in  your  country 
they  would  burn  me  up  for  a  sorciere,  eh?  " 

"  Or  you  would  burn  us  up,"  Mrs.  Clyde  had 
gaily  answered.  "  Some  one  would  surely  have 
to  die." 

This  rejoinder  pleased  the  Marchesa's  fancy, 
and  she  invited  Mrs.  Clyde  to  dinner.  The  ban- 
172 


Mrs.  Clyde 

quet  was  a  great  one,  made  for  the  ambassadors 
and  diplomatic  corps. 

Now,  to-night,  at  Madame  d'Istria's  ball,  she 
and  her  cavalier  wandered  through  the  great 
salons,  and  the  Italian  was  very  ardent. 

"  I  would  not  give  your  little  finger  for  all 
the  yellow  vampires  who  suck  the  blood  of  men. 
I  admire  a  healthy,  strong  creature  like  you.  It 
is  like  wine  to  be  near  you;  it  warms  the  soul." 

"Oh,  dear  me!"  said  Gabriella.  But  she 
did  not  chide  him  much.  It  was  not  her  way  to 
rebuke  sentimental  avowals;  she  laughed  at 
them  or  disarmed  them  with  her  comical  and 
practical  interpretations.  "  I  should  like  to  be 
dangerous,  fascinating,  like  the  Marchesa,"  she 
said.  "  But  I  could  not  undertake  it;  it  would 
be  quite  thrown  away  on  our  fatigued  business 
men  and  our  college  boys,  which  are  all  Boston 
produces.  Besides  which,  with  us,  a  married 
lady  has  no  right  to  attract  at  all." 

At  the  thought  of  Mr.  Clyde  and  the  Mar- 
chesa possibly  meeting,  Gabriella  was  so  di- 
verted that  she  laughed  aloud. 

"  Ah!  you  laugh  at  everything,"  he  said  rue- 
fully. 

ic  173 


Mrs.  Clyde 

They  stopped  to  speak  to  their  hostess. 
Gabriella  was  struck  with  the  contrast  of  her  icy 
contact  with  the  volcanic  breath  which  envel- 
oped Madame  Valmontone;  it  was  like  stepping 
into  the  glacial  clearness  of  an  Autumn  night 
after  lingering  in  the  hot  nebulae  of  a  Southern 
noon.  The  Marchesa  seemed  born  for  a  ball- 
room— her  fitting  frame.  In  fact  she  fitted  into 
a  great  variety  of  frames.  She  appeared  created 
for  the  homage  of  men  and  the  envy  of  women; 
for  the  intrigues,  stratagems  and  awards  of  the 
world.  Aurelia  d'Istria,  on  the  contrary,  lacked 
this  liquidity.  She  was  scarcely  at  ease.  Fault- 
lessly dressed,  there  was  some  hardness  of  detail, 
which  told  of  effort,  whereas  the  folds  of  the 
Marchesa's  velvet  gown  fell  about  her  as  if  they 
had  been  the  carved  peplum  of  a  statue.  An 
effort  also  was  perceptible  in  Madame  d'Istria's 
welcome  to  her  guests.  She  seemed  to  say,  "  It 
is  as  incredible  to  me  you  should  wish  to  come 
to  my  ball  as  that  I  should  desire  to  give  it." 
She  asked  each  and  all  questions,  whose  answers 
she  did  not  wait  for.  Sometimes  she  spoke 
quite  at  random,  leaving  her  guests  a  little 
dazed.  She  appeared  like  one  who  has  assumed 
174 


Mrs.  Clyde 

a  role  she  finds  it  fatiguing  to  enact;  this  fatigue 
was  apparent.  Made  for  domestic  joys  and  fire- 
side affections,  she  walked  alone  through  her 
vast  drawing-rooms,  crowned  with  the  d'Istria 
jewels,  her  thoughts  far  away  and  a  profound 
ennui  in  her  lovely  eyes,  so  profound,  indeed, 
that  at  times  they  filled  with  tears.  She  thought 
herself  an  excellent  actress  and  imagined  she 
concealed  from  others  her  indifference,  but  in 
this  she  was  mistaken.  It  was  betrayed  upon 
her  face  and  in  her  movements,  and  it  chilled 
them.  Nothing  is  further  from  true  sympathy 
than  its  perfunctory  expression.  Madame  d'ls- 
tria's  suavely  spoken  words  of  welcome  fell  on 
the  ears  like  a  pelting  of  snowballs,  as  boreal  and 
as  meaningless.  When  the  Marchesa  addressed 
you,  whether  she  cared  for  you  or  not,  you  be- 
lieved that  upon  your  answer  hung  her  very  ex- 
istence. Your  mind  was  riddled  by  her  amber 
glance  to  yield  up  its  secrets  without  scruple. 
Thought  sprang  quickly  into  birth  upon  your 
lips. 

When  Lionello  finally  wrapped  Gabriella  in 
her  mantle  and  begged  to  find  her  at  home  on 
the  morrow,  she  felt  it  had  been  a  good  ball. 
175 


Mrs.  Clyde 

She  was  learning  the  science  of  the  world;  it  in- 
toxicated her.  She  asked  herself  if  any  other 
prizes  could  be  as  desirable.  She  hummed  to 
herself  a  waltz  tune  as  her  women  unrobed  her, 
and  these  commented  on  her  cheerfulness. 

At  the  same  hour  Aurelia  d'Istria  was  kneel- 
ing at  her  prayers  and  the  Marchesa  Valmon- 
tone  was  pacing  her  room,  wringing  her  hands, 
passing  them  through  her  hair,  which  she  pulled 
this  way  and  that,  until  she  looked  a  sorceress 
indeed.  She  wept  aloud,  as  she  often  did,  al- 
though the  source  of  her  tears  was  unknown 
to  her.  She  sighed  great  sighs  that  heaved  her 
breast  and  left  it  arid  and  dry  as  did  the  tears  the 
dark  orbits  of  her  eyes.  Then  she  crept  in  to 
look  at  her  sleeping  lord,  whose  snores  alone 
woke  the  stillness  of  the  great  palazzo,  and  to 
give  his  valet  and  nurse  some  directions  for 
the  night.  Her  son,  who  was  eighteen,  occu- 
pied one  of  the  palazzo's  wings  all  to  himself 
with  his  preceptor,  the  priest  who  was  chaplain 
to  the  household. 

Yes,  Gabriella  was  learning  the  world.  She 
thought  it  very  good,  so  good  that  she  forgot 
to  go  and  kiss  Pauline,  and  only  looked  over  a 
176 


Mrs.  Clyde 

letter  from  her  husband  she  found  upon  her 
dressing-table.  She  would  read  it  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

This  letter  had  been  written  under  condi- 
tions which  Gabriella  never  guessed;  if  she  had 
done  so  she  would  indeed  have  been  amused. 
A  Delilah  had  attempted  in  her  absence  to  cut 
off  the  hair  of  her  Samson,  and  it  was  in  fleeing 
from  her  wiles  that  the  forlorn  Philetus  had 
stopped  at  his  club  and  sent  a  letter  to  his 
spouse  in  which  lurked  the  contrition  of  a  man 
who  has  been  attacked  and  has  not  yielded. 

One  day  a  lady  penetrated  into  Mr.  Clyde's 
private  office.  How  or  why  she  came  there, 
whence  or  wherefore,  it  would  be  hard  to  say. 
She  announced  herself  as  lately  arrived  from 
Chicago  and  in  quest  of  three  grand  pianos  for 
herself  and  her  two  lately  married  daughters. 
There  was  something  unusual  about  her;  even 
Mr.  Clyde,  who  was  not  a  close  observer  of  fe- 
male loveliness,  saw  this  at  once.  It  may  have 
been  her  complexion;  it  may  have  been  her 
hair;  neither  were  ordinary.  To  a  man  whose 
sight  is  beginning  to  grow  dim  the  aids  of  art — 
which  fresh  young  beauties  always  decry  so 
177 


Mrs.  Clyde 

loudly,  and  even  sometimes  unjustly  accuse 
their  elders  of  practising — may  not  be  alto- 
gether displeasing.  Mr.  Clyde  certainly 
thought  the  lady  uncommonly  good-looking. 
He  bustled  about  and  called  his  head  clerk,  and 
explained  to  her  himself  about  the  instruments 
and  their  varieties  and  prices.  She  told  him  she 
was  a  widow  and  musical;  she  also  hinted  that 
she  was  in  affluent  circumstances.  She  came 
three  or  four  times  and  wrote  him  one  or  two 
notes.  She  finally  asked  him  to  call  at  her  hotel 
— she  wished  to  make  a  final  decision  about  the 
pianos.  There  seemed  about  her  a  mixture  of 
persistency  and  hesitancy.  To  this  last  sum- 
mons he  did  not  respond  in  person;  he  sent  one 
of  his  young  men.  Then  it  was  that  the  music- 
al widow  invaded  the  sanctities  of  the  house  in 
Beacon  Street.  She  managed  to  penetrate  into 
Mr.  Clyde's  library,  after  making  some  sort  of  a 
scene  in  the  hall.  Mr.  Clyde  could  not  imagine 
why  she  had  come;  he  could  only  guess  when 
she  finally  begged  him  to  dine  with  her  that 
night,  and  shed  a  tear  over  her  isolation — and 
his — adding  coolly,  "  Mrs.  Clyde  need  never 
know,  or  I  guess  she  would  be  jealous." 
178 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Clyde,  sternly,  "  have 
you  ever  seen  my  wife?  " 

"  Never,"  simpered  the  widow,  and  paid  him 
some  compliment,  looking  in  the  meanwhile 
about  the  premises  as  if  she  thought  they  would 
exactly  suit  her  views. 

"  If  you  had  seen  Mrs.  Clyde,"  said  Pauline's 
loyal  papa,  "  you  would  be  quite  certain  that 
there  was  no  woman  living  of  whom  she  need  be 
jealous.  Good-day  to  you,  madam,"  and  he 
bowed  her  out,  almost  pushing  her  through  the 
door. 

He  came  back  into  his  library  somewhat  ex- 
cited, and  feeling  peculiarly  lonely  and  unhappy. 
This  was  not  all  that  he  had  expected  of  married 
life.  He  blamed  himself  for  having  been  frivo- 
lous, the  poor  fellow!  He  must  have  been  so  or 
this  shameless  wanton  would  not  have  pursued 
him.  His  heart  overflowed  in  affection  toward 
his  dear  wife  and  beloved  little  girl.  He  would 
send  for  some  of  her  family  to  keep  him  com- 
pany and  protect  him,  as  it  were,  from  such  in- 
vasions. The  woman's  presence  seemed  to 
have  vitiated  the  air  of  his  home.  He  opened  a 
window.  It  was  raining.  He  put  on  his  over- 
179 


Mrs.  Clyde 

coat  and  went  out  to  his  club — a  quiet  affair 
where  elderly  gentlemen  dined — and  wrote  two 
letters — one  was  to  Ringletta  Crane  and  her  hus- 
band, asking  them  to  visit  him;  the  other  one  was 
to  his  wife.  It  was  full  of  love  and  of  tenderness. 
In  the  early  autumn,  God  willing,  he  would 
come  over  and  see  his  dear  ones,  unless,  indeed, 
they  should  come  back  to  him.  Then  he  wrote 
of  the  war,  and  mentioned  that  Walter  Perry 
had  distinguished  himself  on  the  field  of  battle; 
that  he  was  in  command  of  a  coloured  regiment 
in  a  post  of  unusual  danger,  and  had  been  bre- 
vetted  colonel  upon  the  field.  "  If  I  were  young 
enough,"  he  wrote,  "  I  should  shoulder  a  mus- 
ket myself;  but  they  don't  want  old  fogies  like 
me,  I  am  too  rheumatic.  Your  sister  Ring- 
letta's  husband  is  to  form  a  company;  they  will 
be  mustered  in  in  a  few  weeks.  I  have  asked 
them  to  visit  me  before  he  starts.  Your  father 
and  mother  are  well;  I  saw  them  last  week  in 
Dunham.  These  are  dark  days  for  our  poor 
country.  But  you  read  the  journals,  no  doubt. 
Kiss  my  daughter;  tell  her  to  write  to  her  papa; 
she  has  improved  in  her  spelling.  Your  de- 
voted husband,  Philetus." 
1 80 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  The  Jezebel!  "  he  thought  to  himself  later, 
when  he  sought  his  couch  and  said  his  prayers 
with  peculiar  fervency. 

Gabriella  never  knew,  for  he  would  have  died 
rather  than  tell  her.  He  hoped  she  did  not 
guess  that  such  dreadful  women  existed;  at  any 
rate,  she  should  never  learn  through  her  own 
husband.  It  was  his  business  to  shield  her  from 
all  evil.  In  her  present  unprotected  absence  he 
saw  no  peril,  so  ample  \vas  his  faith  in  her  recti- 
tude and  her  honour;  if  it  was  misplaced,  the 
next  chapter  will  unfold. 


181 


CHAPTER    XIII 

THE  English  habit  of  serving  tea  at  five 
o'clock  was  unknown  in  those  days  to  Ameri- 
cans, but  practised  at  the  English  ambassador's, 
where  Gabriella — after  her  appearance  at  Mad- 
ame d'Istria's — became  a  welcome  guest.  She 
quickly  adopted  it.  One  of  the  evidences  of 
Mrs.  Clyde's  social  talent  lay  in  her  quick  accep- 
tation of  innovation — she  cultivated  the  recep- 
tive mood  which  marks  progress. 

The  Count  often  lingered  late  at  these  sym- 
posiums of  Roman  idlers,  for  very  soon  Mrs. 
Clyde's  drawing-rooms  began  to  fill.  Aurelia 
d'Istria  herself  could  scarcely  attract  so  many 
agreeable  men  and  women  as  this  unknown 
American  from  the  borders  of  the  Merrimac. 
She  was  equal  to  any  emergency.  None  knew 
as  well  as  she  how  to  cajole  the  powerful,  how  to 
shake  off  the  tiresome,  how  to  bait  the  slippery 
182 


Mrs.  Clyde 

eels  of  fashion  and  bend  them  to  her  purpose. 
The  women  had  at  first  feared  her  beauty  and 
been  vexed  at  the  size  of  her  sapphires,  but  when 
they  found  she  did  not  rob  them  of  their  hus- 
bands or  their  lovers,  save  in  the  surface  com- 
merce of  society,  which  means  so  little,  they 
found  her  salon  useful  as  a  neutral  ground  for 
their  own  intrigues.  She  was  always  good- 
natured,  agreeable,  breezy,  winked  at  other  peo- 
ple's misdemeanours  and  foibles,  while  herself 
irreproachable.  She  became  extremely  popular. 
The  Count,  as  I  have  said,  sometimes  lin- 
gered late  and  gave  Mrs.  Clyde  a  lesson  in  Ital- 
ian. Like  all  the  sons  of  Italy,  he  was  dramatic, 
he  was  fond  of  declamation.  This  rather  bored 
Gabriella,  who  preferred  chit-chat.  Her  impa- 
tient Americanism  rebelled  at  preparation — she 
didn't  care  to  watch  developments.  The  stolid- 
ity of  Anglo-Saxon  directness  seemed  to  her 
more  effective.  Once,  in  fact,  in  the  midst  of  a 
lyric  outburst,  she  had  interrupted  Lionello  to 
remind  him  that  she  was  dining  out.  He  had 
been  offended,  and  had  not  appeared  for  five 
days.  She  had  missed  him;  the  Count  desired 
to  be  so  missed. 

183 


Mrs.  Clyde 

The  season  was  drawing  to  its  close.  He 
had  once  said  to  a  friend,  "  Oh,  I  so  adore  pre- 
liminaries! "  when  accused  in  a  former  love  pas- 
sage of  remaining  too  long  in  the  sighing  stage. 
But  of  Mrs.  Clyde  he  never  spoke  lightly.  His 
vanity  was  in  abeyance.  He  was  seriously  en- 
amoured and,  more  than  this,  seriously  puzzled. 

He  was  enamoured  of  the  beautiful  colour  in 
her  cheek  when  she  walked  with  him  swiftly 
through  the  streets  or,  at  twilight,  on  the  Cam- 
pagna,  while  her  carriage  followed  them;  of  the 
beat  of  her  positive  protestant  foot  at  the  altar 
steps  of  the  Roman  churches;  of  the  imperious 
poise  of  her  pretty  head;  of  her  healthy  body 
and  her  intelligent  mind.  Her  sound,  good 
sense,  her  sanity,  appealed  to  him  as  deliciously 
new  and  fresh.  There  was,  however,  something 
about  her  which  puzzled  him. 

The  Earl  of  Dearborn  might  have  fancied 
Gabriella  complaisant;  Lionello  made  no  such 
blunder.  The  Latin  makes  fewer  such  mis- 
takes. He  had  several  times  intended  to  fall  at 
her  feet  and  declare  himself,  but  somehow  the 
right  moment  never  arrived.  He  told  himself 
that  he  feared  her  displeasure,  and,  manlike,  he 
184 


Mrs.  Clyde 

liked  her  the  better  for  this.  Not  impulsive,  but 
by  nature  reflective,  he  decided  that  this  should 
be  no  vulgar  amour;  that  this  infatuation  would 
require  sacrifices.  Well,  why  not?  She  seemed 
to  him  just  then  worth  the  highest.  He  was 
prudent  enough,  however,  to  hope  that  some  of 
her  fortune  was  settled  upon  herself,  for  his  own 
means  were  somewhat  crippled  and  he  feared 
hardly  adequate  to  supply  the  lavish  luxuries  to 
which  the  lady  was  evidently  accustomed.  Not- 
withstanding his  thrifty  Roman  eye,  the  pagan 
side  in  him  was  now  uppermost.  He  would  re- 
nounce his  creed,  his  family,  his  titles,  his  fiefs — 
all.  She  could  doubtless  arrange — these  things 
were  quickly  done  in  Protestant  countries — to 
annul  her  ties  to  the  old  American  husband — 
evidently  entirely  unappreciative  and  neglectful 
— and  he  would  marry  her!  He  would  become 
a  Lutheran,  a  Hottentot — anything  she  wished. 
He  snapped  his  fingers,  madly  talked  to  himself 
as  he  smoked  innumerable  cigarettes  in  the 
naked  apartment  he  called  his  biblioteca. 

They  would  hide  their  loves  at  Fossombrone 
or,  if  this  did  not  suit  the  lady  of  his  worship, 
he  would  follow  her  to  America,  where  he  could 
185 


Mrs.  Clyde 

give  Italian  lessons  or  tan  buffalo  skins  for  a 
living.  His  nose  lengthened  somewhat  at  the 
remembrance  of  Pauline,  but  she  was,  after  all, 
an  angioletto,  the  poor  little  one;  and  if  the  des- 
picable old  husband,  evidently  an  unfit  guide  for 
childhood,  should  insist  on  having  her,  he  would 
instantly  adopt  her  and  give  a  few  more  lessons 
and  tan  a  few  more  buffaloes.  He  burned  to 
immolate  himself.  Gabriella's  vitality  was  in- 
fectious. She  inspired  him  with  undreamed  of 
courage;  he  felt  such  an  influence  to  be  above 
all  things  beneficial  and  renovating — all  of  which 
shows  that  the  master  was,  after  all,  far  more  in- 
genuous than  his  pupil. 

One  afternoon,  consumed  by  all  these  hopes 
and  projects,  he  found  Gabriella  at  last  alone. 
After  the  usual  reading  from  the  poets,  tea, 
which  she  drank,  and  wine,  which  he  sipped, 
were  brought  in — he  could  not  absorb  tea  even 
to  please  her — he  came  over  and  sat  close  to  her 
feet  on  a  little  stool  and  looked  up  into  her 
bright  face  with  all  the  love  and  longing  of  his 
own.  Mrs.  Clyde  seemed  in  an  unusually  soft 
mood — softness  was  not  her  salient  trait.  She 
'had  a  slight  headache,  had  denied  herself  to  visi- 
186 


Mrs.  Clyde 

tors  and  was  lying  back  upon  her  cushions  in  a 
lace  robe  de  chambre  of  graceful  fashioning.  She 
toyed  with  the  rings  upon  her  fingers.  One  tall 
lamp  lit  the  drawing-room,  silent,  gloomy  under 
the  duskiness  of  its  green  tapestries.  It  cast 
curious  lights  and  shadows  on  the  frescoed  ceil- 
ing, where  one  more  divined  than  saw  goddesses 
at  play,  chasing  each  other  through  clouds  of 
su-set  tint.  Outside  the  populace  was  hurry- 
ing homeward,  fearful  of  the  chill,  which  falls  at 
evening  over  the  Roman  city,  and  the  malarial 
vapours  of  the  Tiber.  The  cries  of  the  street 
venders  were  almost  still,  a  tolling  bell,  the  clat- 
ter of  a  monk's  sandals,  the  last  protest  of  the 
polenta  seller,  the  wrangle  of  two  beggars  over  a 
copper,  alone  awoke  the  pervading  silence. 
The  corner  where  Gabriella  sat  was  sweet  with 
roses,  which  filled  the  apartment  with  fragrance. 
A  slight  languor,  half  drowsiness,  half  content, 
stole  over  Mrs.  Clyde.  She  told  herself  that  it 
would  be  pleasant  to  sit  forever  thus  with  this 
handsome  man  of  the  world  at  her  feet.  A 
sense  of  security,  of  satisfaction,  and  something 
warmer  perhaps,  more  tangible,  awoke  within 
her.  She  looked  down  into  his  eyes  and  smiled, 
187 


Mrs.  Clyde 

and  then  somehow  she  blushed,  embarrassed  in 
his  presence  for  the  first  time,  she  knew  not  why. 
She  began  to  thank  him,  almost  effusively,  for 
all  he  had  done  for  her  in  Rome.  He  it  was  to 
whom  she  owed  everything.  Her  Legation, 
bah!  It  had  hurt  more  than  helped  her.  The 
Minister  was  a  weak,  ineffectual  creature,  and 
his  wife  a  dowdy.  She  would  never  have  been 
asked  to  Madame  d'Istria's  but  for  him,  and  this 
had  been  the  turning  point  of  fortune. 

This  mood  of  gratitude  seemed  propitious. 
Lionello  possessed  himself  of  her  right  hand. 
It  was  warm  and  slightly  moist.  It  fluttered 
and  then  lay  passive  for  a  moment  in  his  own. 
Emboldened,  he  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"  If  it  be  true,"  he  said  huskily,  "  that  I  have 
done  this  small  thing  for  you,  even  slaves  have 
from  their  owners  some  reward  of  kindness. 
What  will  be  mine?  " 

She  had  withdrawn  her  hand  already.  She 
was  sitting  up  now  very  upright,  with  her  light 
garments  drawn  around  her  like  a  panoply  of 
conflict — conflict,  in  fact,  seemed  the  unwritten 
canon  of  poor  Mrs.  Clyde's  existence. 

What  did  he  expect  of  her?  The  demand 
188 


Mrs.  Clyde 

was  abrupt  but  pertinent.     He  left  her  in  no 
doubt. 

With  his  glowing  face  close  to  her  own  he 
poured  forth  all  the  fever  of  his  loving  in  that 
persuasive  tongue  of  the  "  paese  dove  il  si  su- 
ona"  All  the  lost  fervour  of  the  Malatesta  and 
the  Falconieri  seemed  to  find  voice  in  the  tor- 
rent of  his  words.  All  that  they  held  of  special 
pleading  and  hot  entreaties,  veiled  cries  of  ten- 
derness, fiery  protestations,  blended  in  cadences 
of  pathos,  piercing  as  song  of  nightingale  on 
summer  nights.  More  and  more  as  the  man 
talked,  swayed  by  the  masterfulness  of  his  senti- 
ment, out  of  the  confused  past  surged  about  and 
encompassed  the  woman  a  motley  multitude. 
Stalwart  figures,  indistinct  at  first,  but  gaining 
force  and  power,  in  sombre  shapes,  surrounded 
her;  her  father  and  mother,  her  grandfather  and 
grandmother  and  theirs  and  theirs,  a  goodly 
number  of  dames  in  cap  and  apron,  with  chaste 
demeanour  and  serious  eyes;  and  men,  robust 
and  vigorous,  hatchet  in  hand  and  wearing 
shovel  hats,  with  severe  lips — and  gradually 
Gabriella  Dunham  Clyde  grew  colder  and  cold- 
er, more  and  more  rigid.  She  looked  at  the 
13  189 


Mrs.  Clyde 

young  man  with  distended  pupils  and  defiant 
arms  crossed  on  her  breast. 

"  How  dare  you !  "  she  at  last  cried  to  him. 
"  How  dare  you!  "  She  felt  no  immediate  fear 
of  him  as  she  had  of  Dearborn,  and  in  fact  she 
need  not  have  done  so.  Falconieri  was  a  gen- 
tleman. 

When  he  got  himself  out  and  on  the  side- 
walk he  was  grateful  for  this  himself,  for  his  im- 
pulse had  been  to  strike  her — dead. 

I  am  not  sure  if  Falconieri  had  gone  so  far 
as  to  explain  to  Gabriella  the  fate  which  awaited 
her  should  she  succumb  to  his  entreaties.  I  am 
not  sure  whether  the  Count,  robbed  of  his  titles 
and  estates  and  teaching  and  tanning  in  some  far 
Western  territory,  had  appalled  her.  I  am  will- 
ing to  believe  that  she  was  virtuous.  At  any 
rate,  her  ancestry  had  conquered  his.  Yet  her 
exclamation,  "  What  an  ass  the  man  must  be!  " 
when  he  had  left  her,  seems  to  indicate  that  no 
measure  of  his  folly  had  been  concealed  from 
her. 

If  Mr.  Clyde  felt  absolute  faith  in  his  wife's 
safety,  her  father  was  less  at  rest.  He  looked 
with  some  disfavour  upon  his  daughter's  expa- 
190 


Mrs.  Clyde 

triation.  He  wrote  to  her  a  few  days  later: 
"  Your  mother  and  I  do  not  find  Philetus  look- 
ing well.  Whatever  advantages  may  accrue  to 
your  daughter  from  European  tutelage,  we 
think  your  first  duty,  my  dear  child,  is  to  your 
good  husband.  I  trust  he  will  join  you  in  the 
summer  and  that  your  absence  will  not  be  pro- 
longed." Nevertheless  Mrs.  Clyde  resided  four 
years  in  Europe.  When  she  returned  the  war 
was  over,  Pauline  was  twelve  years  old.  She 
had  crossed  the  ocean  twice,  however,  to  see  her 
husband,  leaving  the  child  in  a  convent  in  Paris, 
and  Mr.  Clyde  had  spent  some  months  abroad. 
"  I  am  coming  home,"  she  wrote  to  her  old 
friend,  Mr.  Remington.  "  I  have  done  Europe 
pretty  thoroughly.  I  have  been  a  success  near- 
ly everywhere;  have  met  lots  of  delightful  peo- 
ple, and  now  am  ready  to  settle  down.  Boston 
could  not  hold  me  any  more;  I  shall  try  New 
York." 


191 


CHAPTER    XIV 

WHEN  Pauline  was  sixteen  years  old,  Mrs. 
Clyde  thought  that  it  was  time  that  she  should 
learn  the  arts  of  the  salon.  There  being  no 
Ninon  de  1'Enclos  in  New  York — the  women  in 
Paris,  the  great  ladies,  used  to  take  their  daugh- 
ters to  Ninon  to  form  their  manners — she  de- 
cided to  be  herself  her  daughter's  guide.  After 
dinner  parties,  therefore,  Pauline  was  allowed  to 
come  down  and  sit  apart  from  the  company  with 
her  embroidery,  under  a  lamp,  and  listen  to, 
while  not  joining  in,  the  general  conversation. 
People  dined  earlier  then  than  now,  and  from 
nine  until  ten  o'clock  the  girl  made  these  brief 
apparitions  in  her  mother's  drawing-room  when 
the  latter  dined  at  home  informally.  The  rest 
of  Miss  Clyde's  day  was  largely  devoted  to  men- 
tal development  and  bodily  exercise.  She  was 
an  excellent  horsewoman,  a  capital  whip,  danced 
admirably,  spoke  half  a  dozen  foreign  tongues 
192 


Mrs.  Clyde 

with  ease,  and  painted  the  portraits  of  such  of 
her  friends  as  would  sit  to  her.  She  was  also 
musical — she  could  sing  a  ballad  with  taste,  ac- 
company herself  with  correctness,  if  not  with 
dash.  She  was  too  timid  to  do  herself  justice 
before  strangers.  Added  to  all  these  gifts  and 
graces  Pauline  was  deeply  religious.  As  she  sat 
with  her  hated  embroidery  in  her  hands,  one  or 
two  of  the  more  intimate  frequenters  of  her 
mamma's  house — among  them  Mr.  Remington, 
who  now  passed  two  months  of  every  winter  in 
New  York — would  detach  themselves  from  the 
group  about  the  fireplace,  and  seeking  out  the 
girl  would  try  to  draw  her  into  conversation. 
She  rewarded  them  with  that  rare  smile  which 
illumined  her  thoughtful  face,  like  the  first  flush 
of  dawn;  but  her  talk  remained  monosyllabic. 
These  wandering  gentlemen  were  more  warmly 
welcomed  by  a  young  girl  who  sometimes  sat 
beside  her.  This  was  none  other  than  the 
daughter  of  Gabriella's  old  friend,  Mrs.  Deve- 
reux.  Clara,  Junior,  or  little  Coy,  as  she  was 
called,  looked  to  these  visits  in  New  York  as  to 
a  paradise  of  rapture.  When  she  was  there  the 
childish  heads  were  bent  together,  and  the  prat- 
193 


Mrs.  Clyde 

tie  of  the  maidens  was  interluded  by  smothered 
titters  such  as  spring  lightly  from  maiden  lips. 
But  whereas  Pauline  was  always  quick  to  escape 
and  pleased  when  ten  o'clock  struck  the  moment 
of  release,  Coy  lingered  with  laggard  step,  look- 
ing back  at  the  fine  company  in  all  its  bravery  of 
broadcloth  and  satin.  She  was  more  sympa- 
thetic to  Mrs.  Clyde  than  her  own  daughter,  and 
often  begged  to  be  allowed  to  hold  the  hairpins 
while  the  maid  dressed  her  hostess's  hair,  glad  of 
an  excuse  to  remain  within  the  orbit  of  festive 
preparation.  This  young  visitor  wore  Mrs. 
Clyde's  and  Pauline's  cast-off  dresses,  hats  and 
gloves,  took  drawing  lessons  with  Miss  Clyde, 
while  she  remained  with  her,  as  well  as  French 
with  the  Gallic  professor.  She  hearkened  with 
avidity  to  Mrs.  Clyde's  wise  counsel  as  to  the 
opportunities  of  dowerless  girls  and  the  need- 
fulness of  energy  to  bend  chance  to  their  pur- 
pose. Miss  Devereux  was  not  well  off.  Her 
father's  death  had  left  the  family  fortunes 
crippled. 

Mrs.  Clyde  did  not  encourage  the  excursions 
of    her     guests     toward     the     young     friends. 
"  Leave  the  little  girls  alone,"   she  would  cry 
194 


Mrs.  Clyde 

after  the  deserters;  "  come  back  and  entertain 
us  grown-up  people;  we  are  dull  enough,  God 
knows." 

Pauline,  however,  if  she  did  not  mingle  much 
in  the  general  persiflage,  listened;  she  listened 
and  she  "  read,  marked,  learned  and  inwardly  di- 
gested." She  thought  about  it  all  afterward,  too, 
for  she  was  eminently  reflective.  She  judged 
the  people  who  came  and  went  with  that  astute- 
ness with  which  inexperienced  youth  sometimes 
surprises  us.  Her  judgments  were  severe — a 
severity  which  after  years  robbed  of  its  implaca-. 
bility.  Pauline  was  not  indulgent.  It  is  to  be 
supposed  that  this  part  of  her  education  was 
salutary.  Talent,  the  great  German  poet  tells 
us,  requires  for  its  florescence  repose  and  silence, 
but  character  can  alone  be  fructified  through  hu- 
man contact. 

Pauline  was  found  at  this  time  to  be  some- 
what wilful  and  obstinate,  and  there  were  occa- 
sional battles  between  the  mother  and  the  daugh- 
ter whose  victory  remained  uncertain.  To  her 
maternal  discomfiture,  Gabriella  was  even  some- 
times forced  to  admit  herself  vanquished.  "  She 
has  a  very  strong  will,"  she  said  once,  laughing, 
195 


Mrs.  Clyde 

to  Mr.  Remington,  "  and  so  have  I.  When  we 
clash,  I  often  find  it  is  I  that  must  yield." 

As  yet,  of  course,  Pauline  was  a  child,  ame- 
nable to  control  and  discipline,  and  her  brief 
spells  of  sharp  rebellion  were  followed  by  periods 
of  angelic  subservience.  No  one  could  be  easier 
to  live  with  when  not  thwarted. 

She  was  devoted  to  her  father,  although  she 
was  not  much  with  him.  He  was  generally  in 
Boston,  returning  to  his  home  in  New  York, 
rather  jaded,  for  his  Sundays.  To  the  man  it 
seemed  hardly  possible  that  this  bright  and  ex- 
quisite creature  could  be  his  own,  flesh  of  his 
flesh,  marrow  of  his  bones.  And  what,  indeed, 
could  be  more  different 'than  the  quiet  old  man 
who  haunted  the  back  ways  of  his  domains  in 
carpet  slippers  and  the  radiant  apparition  who 
sometimes  came  to  invade  his  solitude?  He 
treated  her  with  an  odd  mixture  of  tenderness 
and  of  shyness.  More  grave  than  merry,  Paul- 
ine had,  through  exuberant  health,  moments  of 
overflowing  gaiety.  It  was  in  these  that,  like 
the  whirlwind,  she  would  rush  upon  her  father, 
give  him  a  great  bear-hug  of  affection,  nestle  her 
cheek  to  his,  call  him  pet  names  and  ask  him 
196 


Mrs.  Clyde 

trifling  favours  or  bring  him  presents  worked  by 
her  own  fair  ringers  as  "  surprises."  He  met 
these  overtures  protestingly,  saying,  "  There, 
my  little  daughter;  there,  there!  Papa  is  busy; 
run  away."  But  she  would  not  go,  and  half- 
timidly  he  would  just  touch  her  soft  hair  with 
his  hand.  He  idolized  her.  To  her  mother's 
far  more  demonstrative  caresses  Pauline  never 
responded.  She  accepted  the  kisses  and  the 
fondlings  with  submissiveness,  but  without  en- 
thusiasm. There  was  between  the  two  a  secret 
antagonism  which  each  vaguely  felt,  yet  would 
not  have  acknowledged. 

Mr.  Clyde's  presence  in  his  drawing-rooms 
was  rare.  When  there,  he  was  usually  silent. 
Of  himself  he  never  spoke.  This  effacement — 
so  unusual  in  self-made  men,  so  rare  in  self- 
made  women,  to  whom  this  last  expression 
of  European  polish  is  unknown — was  purely 
personal.  His  vanity  found  aliment,  as  his 
industry  reward,  in  the  splendour  of  his  women; 
they  represented  to  him  the  fruits  of  his  own 
hardships,  the  rich  embodiment  of  all  his 
dreams.  They  were  his  egoism.  Nothing 
was  good  enough  for  them.  He  revelled  and 
197 


Mrs.  Clyde 

warmed  himself  at  their  rays  like  a  frozen  crea- 
ture in  the  sun's.  With  all  his  abnegations,  Mr. 
Clyde  was  oddly  enough  persistent  in  one  or  two 
matters.  His  gaunt  sister  from  Dunham  was 
always  received  at  Christmas-time  for  a  fort- 
night, and  it  was  exacted  that  her  advent  should 
be  treated  with  consideration.  Then  there  were 
certain  charities  for  which  he  claimed  his  wife's 
voice,  purse  and  patronage.  Mrs.  Clyde  met 
these  demands  with  fair  exactitude.  "  My  hus- 
band's family  and  its  claims  "  lie  in  the  profes- 
sions of  excuse  for  non-appearance  at  functions 
to  which  one  is  not  bidden,  while  philanthropy 
is  always  modish.  Mrs.  Clyde  recognised  that 
the  dignity  of  a  household  depends  on  its  unity. 
She  wished  her  husband  to  command  respect; 
his  inefficacy  would  have  annoyed  her. 

There  could  now  be  no  further  question  as 
to  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Clyde  had  "  arrived." 
Every  foreigner  of  distinction  who  came  to  the 
United  States  brought  her  letters  of  introduc- 
tion, and  every  local  lion  was  feted  in  her  spa- 
cious homes.  Invitations  to  her  houses,  in  New 
York  and  at  Newport,  were  anxiously  desired 
and  prized,  and  if  there  was  a  conservative  ele- 
198 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ment  which  still  "  remembered  "  and  shrugged 
its  shoulders,  it  was  of  too  little  importance  to 
work  her  mischief.  She  had  returned  from 
Europe  with  the  prestige  of  her  success — suc- 
cess untinged  by  breath  of  scandal.  Her  first 
winter  in  New  York  had  been  the  most  difficult 
— a  last  campaign,  in  which  with  flying  if  torn 
colours  she  had  come  out  a  victor. 

New  York  was  then  governed  by  two  cliques 
— that  of  the  already  waning  Knickerbocker 
families,  well  born,  well  bred,  dignified  and  dull, 
and  that  of  the  less  solid,  more  brilliant  moths 
of  fashion,  recruited  here  and  there  and  every- 
where, with  a  drop  of  foreign  blood,  a  dash  of 
Western  prowess,  a  touch  of  Southern  courtesy, 
of  creole  beauty  or  of  New  England  enterprise. 
Into  this  last  heterogeneous  body  certain  ele- 
ments of  Dutch  ancestry  had  been  absorbed  by 
marriage,  so  that  the  links  which  bound  the  two 
coteries,  if  loose,  were  not  quite  snapped. 

The  Knickerbockers  were  stolid  and  scorn- 
ful, rigid,  self-satisfied  and  had  a  rather  heavy 
time,  while  these  gayer  ones  danced  over  their 
heads,  made  merry  at  their  expense  and  set  the 
town  agape  with  their  mad  antics.  The  first 
199 


Mrs.  Clyde 

frowned  sternly  upon  Mrs.  Clyde;  the  second, 
after  a  short  parley,  threw  their  doors  wide  open 
to  receive  her.     But  she  wanted  both,  and  ever 
and  anon,  year  by  year,  she  added  another  name 
to  her  fast-growing  list — a  name  distinguished 
for  something  else  than  excellent  dinners,  un- 
usual pranks  and  a  large  income.     The  Ameri- 
can wife  of  a  French  general,  a  man  of  rank, 
whose  mother's  salon  was  deemed  exceptionally 
elegant  and  exclusive,  had  given  Mrs.  Clyde  her 
hand.     They  had  met  at  Spa  and  had  become 
fast  friends,  but  even  with  so  powerful  a  pilot 
as  Madame  la  Generale,  there  were  rebuffs.     On 
the  night  of  a  large  ball  Mrs.  Clyde  had  been 
landed  by  this  lady  in  an  acquaintance's  dressing- 
room.     Mr.  Remington  was  waiting  for  her  at 
the  door.     As  she  leaned  forward  for  a  moment 
to  smooth  a  ruffled  lock  of  hair,  a  small  slight 
lady,  whom  she  knew  by  sight,  in  the  right  of 
acknowledged  leadership  pushed  to  the  mirror. 
Now,   Mrs.   Clyde,  being  a  militant   Christian, 
held  her  ground,  and  then  the  lady,  who  proved 
not  only  militant  but  muscular,  trampled  upon 
her  with  her  slender  heel,  using  both  elbow  and 
foot  with  energy. 

200 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  kept  you,  dear  Mr. 
Remington,"  said  Gabriella,  joining  her  escort 
in  the  hall,  "  but  I've  just  been  kicked." 

"  Kicked !  " 

"  Yes,  so,  from  behind,"  and  she  exemplified 
the  salute  she  had  received,  raising  her  skirt, 
"  and  it  took  me  a  minute  to  compose  myself." 

"  A  jealous  woman,  eh?  They're  dying  of 
it." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Mrs.  Clyde,  who  was  not 
silly;  "  nothing  of  the  sort.  Why  should  a 
woman  younger,  prettier,  better  placed  here, 
than  I  am  be  jealous?  No,  it  was  sheer  wicked- 
ness, inexcusable  deviltry."  Nevertheless,  she 
forgave  the  kicker  later,  when  she  found  her  use- 
ful, and  bore  her  no  grudge. 

We  all,  however,  are  human.  She  did  some- 
times make  fun  of  her  in  genial  moments,  re- 
gretting the  dulness  of  her  parties;  in  more 
tragic  ones  deploring  that  Mrs.  T.'s  beauty  was 
on  the  wane,  doubtless  sapped  by  some  con- 
cealed disease — who  knew,  perhaps  a  hidden  tu- 
mour? 

Now  she  said  to  Mr.  Remington:  "Some 
of  these  women  are  determined  to  extinguish 
201 


Mrs.  Clyde 

me,  it  is  a  regular  cabal;  do  you  think  they  will 
succeed?  "  And  then  he  looked  at  her  volum- 
inous person — she  was  growing  a  wee  bit  stout 
— at  her  befeathered  head  and  defiant  eye,  and 
told  her  he  did  not  think  she  would  be  easily 
"  extinguished." 

"  Mrs.  Philetus  Clyde,"  shouted  the  servant, 
admitting  the  stately  dame  into  a  company 
which  from  this  hour  kicked  her  no  more. 

On  her  occasional  visits  to  Dunham  to  see 
her  father — her  mother  had  died — Mrs.  Clyde 
would  stop  and  pass  a  night  at  Mrs.  Devereux's. 
They  then  had  long  talks  upon  the  past,  the 
present  and,  above  all,  the  future  of  their  only 
daughters.  Mrs.  Devereux,  for  many  years  a 
widow,  was  an  old-fashioned  one  and  inconsola- 
ble. This  rather  fatigued  Mrs.  Clyde,  who 
thought  it  was  high  time  that  Clara  should  dry 
her  tears.  "  Really,  my  dear,"  she  would  say, 
"you  must  shake  yourself  up;  you  can't  mope 
this  way  all  the  rest  of  your  life,  dipped  in  ink, 
and  Coy  coming  on."  Then  Clara  would  shake 
her  head  and  assume  a  mournful  aspect  and  get 
out  her  handkerchief.  "  I  loved  my  Charlie;  I 
miss  him  more  every  hour.  I  sometimes  think, 
202 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Gella,  you  have  never  loved."  Now,  no  woman 
of  spirit  likes  to  be  informed  she  has  missed  any 
momentous  experience,  and  Mrs.  Clyde  resented 
the  imputation. 

"  Folderol,  Clara,  I  have  loved  just  as  much 
as  anybody  else;  what  do  you  know  about  it, 
pray?" 

"  Well,  now,  really,  have  you,  Gella?  " 
Mrs.  Clyde  sighed.     "  There  was  an  Italian 
gentleman,  one  of  the  Falconieri  family,  a  count, 
perfectly  devoted  to  me  in  Rome.     Had  I  been 

free " 

"  Well,  that  is  just  what  you  weren't." 
"  What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?  " 
"Gabriella!"     Mrs.  Devereux  was  shocked. 
"  Well,  it  hasn't.     One  can  not  control  the 
heart."     Mrs.    Clyde   also    produced    a   pocket 
handkerchief.     "  I  was  attached  to  that — er — 
Italian." 

"  Did  he  make  love  to  you,  a  married  wom- 
an? "  asked  Mrs.  Devereux,  with  considerable 
curiosity. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  he  did,  and  I  confess  I  was 
touched.     He  was  the  most  elegant  creature  in 
his  manners.     Dearborn — O  Clara!  do  you  re- 
203 


Mrs.  Clyde 

member  Dearborn? — was  a  noisy  clown  to  him. 
Well,  he  made  me  a  declaration." 

"  What  did  you  have  on?  Where  were 
you?  "  Mrs.  Devereux's  gentle  eyes  were  wide 
with  the  woman's  craving  for  detail. 

"Oh,  nothing !" 

"Why,  Gella!" 

"  I  mean  no  dress,  a  peignoir,  a  loose  thing; 
I  had  been  ill.  Of  course  I  had  to  turn  him 
right  out  of  the  house — the  palazzo — I  had  one 
near  the  Princess  d'Istria's." 

"  It  does  sound  fascinating,  the  whole  thing; 
so  you  turned  the  poor  Count  out?  What  a  life 
you  have  had!  But  of  course  it  was  your 
duty." 

"  There  is  no  '  of  course '  about  it ;  every- 
body can't  stay  swathed  in  crape  as  you  do,  and 
be  dismal.  You  ought  to  take  off  your  veil. 
In  London  you  would  be  stoned,  with  these 
yards  hanging  on  you.  As  to  the  Count,  I  sup- 
pose one  of  those  foreign  women  would  have  lis- 
tened to  him  fast  enough — a  man  of  his  rank  and 
great  intelligence." 

"  Well,  but  Mr.  Clyde  is  alive." 

"  I  came  back  to  him,  and  that  settles  the 
204 


Mrs.  Clyde 

matter.  He  little  knows  all  the  sacrifices  I  have 
made  for  him."  Then  she  began  to  weep.  It 
was  about  this  time  that  there  came  to  be  a 
simulated  emotion  in  her  which  demanded  sym- 
pathy. Mrs.  Devereux  was  not  a  keen  ob- 
server, and  tears  are  tears  whether  artificial  or 
genuine;  if  these  hardly  sprang  from  the  depths 
of  some  "  divine  despair  "  they  were  at  any  rate, 
respectable.  She  felt  quite  drawn  to  her  friend, 
and  patted  her  hands  affectionately. 

"  And  how  is  your  sweet  Pauline?  " 

"  Very  well,  thanks.  I  am  glad  of  Coy's 
companionship  for  her;  my  girl  is  too  exaltee; 
Coy  has  far  more  sense." 

"  Why,  I  think  Coy  romantic." 

"  Not  a  bit;  not  like  Pauline.  Now,  for  in- 
stance, she  is  religious." 

"  Are  you  not  glad?  " 

"  Not  as  she  goes  on.  I  took  a  pew  in 
Grace,  everybody  goes  there — Unitarianism  is 
played  out  even  here;  in  New  York  it  is  quite 
out  of  the  question — I  have  become  an  Episco- 
palian. But  Pauline  is  so  extreme." 

"  How  do  you  mean?  " 

"  She  runs  off  and  goes  to  St.  Albans.  Her 
14  205 


Mrs.  Clyde 

English  governess,  Miss  Stafford,  abets  her. 
They  are  absurd!  I  caught  Pauline  going  to 
confession  to  Father  Anselme,  a  crazy  creature 
who  has  come  over  from  England.  She  would 
not  eat  a  mouthful  all  of  Lent;  I  have  stopped 
that." 

"How  odd!" 

"  It  is  vexing.  She  is  very  pig-headed,  like 
her  papa;  he  looks  so  meek,  Mr.  Clyde,  but  he 
has  got  a  will  of  his  own,  I  can  tell  you,  positive- 
ly mulish;  it  must  come  from  the  de  Lyons — 
men  of  iron,  the  de  Lyons." 

"  Why,  Gella,  what  do  you  mean?  I 
thought  Pauline  was  named  for  Bulwer's  play." 

"  She  was,  in  a  way,  but  Mr.  Clyde's  ances- 
tors were  Huguenots — nobles,  and " 

This  later  discovery  was  one  of  those  curi- 
ous assertions  which  as  the  years  rolled  on,  Mrs. 
Clyde  made  with  perfect  good  faith;  it  was 
probable  that  she  herself  had  learned  to  believe 
in  the  de  Lyons.  Mrs.  Devereux,  at  any  rate, 
swallowed  them,  iron  wills  and  all.  Mrs.  Clyde's 
visits  were  stimulating,  and  even  disconsolate 
widows  may  pine  for  diversion. 

"  I  find  your  Coy  a  lovely  girl.  She  has  the 
206 


Mrs.  Clyde 

best  temper,  and  she  is  devoted  to  me.  I  wish  I 
could  say  the  same  for  Pauline.  She  is  very 
quick.  She  was  very  angry  about  my  stopping 
the  confessional.  The  Duchess  of  Montclair 
told  me  she  had  just  the  same  trouble  with  her 
Gladys." 

"  Lady  Gladys  St.  John!  You  know  her 
then?" 

"  We  met  them  on  the  Riviera.  She  took 
a  great  fancy  to  Pauline,  the  duchess,  I  mean." 

"  Would  you  allow  Pauline  to  marry 
abroad?  " 

"  Oh,  perhaps,  if  a  good  parti  offered.  I 
don't  wish  her  to  be  an  old  girl;  I  want  to  marry 
her  soon  and  well.  But  she  has  got  to  study 
two  more  years." 

"  Coy  will  marry  herself  to  some  good  man, 
I  hope.  I  would  use  no  influence  in  matters  of 
the  heart."  Mrs.  Devereux  was  dazed  at  all 
this  worldliness;  it  was  frightening.  Then  she 
told  her  friend  that  Ovid  Train,  Jr.,  had  distin- 
guished Coy  at  dancing  school  with  his  atten- 
tions. 

"What,  my  dear,  that  young  millionaire! 
Well,  you  are  in  luck! — and  no  parents  to  make 
207 


Mrs.  Clyde 

themselves  unpleasant.  You  had  better  not  let 
him  slip." 

Then  Mrs.  Devereux  insisted  deprecatingly 
that  she  would  not  raise  a  ringer  to  detain  him. 

Coy  had  told  Pauline  of  Ovid's  infatuation. 
"  It  is  very  silly  in  him,"  she  had  said,  gig- 
gling. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  little  bow-legged  thing 
with  the  queer  head?  "  said  Pauline.  "  Why, 
of  course  you  would  not  look  at  him?  " 

"  He  can't  help  his  head,"  said  Coy,  without 
resentment.  "  His  nurse  dropped  him  when  he 
was  little." 

"  Has  he  any  sense?  " 

Then  Coy  explained  that  though  her  adorer 
might  not  be  an  eagle  he  was  not  a  fool. 

"  I  could  only  marry  a  very  superior  man," 
said  Pauline,  "  and  very  religious.  Between  me 
and  my  husband  there  must  be  perfect  sympa- 
thy; I  care  nothing  for  money,  do  you?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Coy. 

"  It  is  all  dross,  vanity,  fleeting." 

"  You  see,"  said  Coy,  tentatively,  "  you  have 
always  had  such  a  lot." 

"  I  would  give  it  all  away  to-morrow.  I 
208 


Mrs.  Clyde 

shall  marry  a  man  I  can  admire,  revere,  lean 
upon." 

"  You  do  seem  to  care  for  looks,  though, 
Pauline!  " 

"  Not  so  much,  if  a  man  had  mind  and  char- 
acter. What  sort  of  a  fellow  is — Ovid?  " 

"  He  is  very  rich." 

Pauline  waved  away  his  ducats. 

"  I  love  beautiful  things.  Did  you  notice 
Mrs.  Light's  pearls  on  that  pale  rose  colour  the 
other  night  when  Mr.  Remington  was  teasing 
us?  I  was  just  gazing  at  her." 

"  No." 

;<  You  never  seem  to  see  what  they  wear.  I 
don't  care  for  things  so  much  in  drawers,  but  I 
like  to  put  them  on  myself." 

Pauline  smiled  a  far-away  smile.  "  I  am 
afraid  you  will  marry  Ovid,  head,  legs  and  all." 

"  Well,  then,  if  I  were  you  I  would  not  speak 
so  about  him;  you  would  feel  badly." 

"  Has  he  a  soul?  " 

Coy  had  not  investigated  the  young  man's 
soul,  but  hoped  it  was  all  right. 

"  Soul — that  is  everything!  But  here  comes 
Staffey  with  some  tarts.  I'll  wager  she  has  got 
209 


Mrs.  Clyde 

them  hidden  away  in  that  paper.  She  buys 
tarts  and  eats  them  every  time  she  goes  out. 
Here,  Staffey  dear,  share  your  goodies  with  us 
and  I  will  give  you  some  new  gloves  out  of  my 
Christmas  money." 

Notwithstanding  her  spiritual  proclivities, 
Miss  Clyde  devoured  two  large  peach  tarts  with 
relish,  and  smacked  her  lips  over  them  like  one 
not  averse  to  saccharine  inspiration,  after  which 
she  indulged  in  a  pillow  fight  with  the  gover- 
ness. 

When  Pauline  was  eighteen  her  mamma 
took  her  abroad  again.  She  desired  to  present 
her  at  a  London  drawing-room.  On  the  whole, 
the  girl  had  been  brought  up  quietly.  Her 
childhood  had  been  serious.  She  had  been 
hedged  in  by  teachers,  governesses  and  maids  of 
austere  demeanour  and  lynx-eyed  vigilance. 
She  was  eminently  what  the  French  call  bien 
elevee.  This  was  to  be  her  first  essay,  after 
which  she  was  to  be  duly  introduced  at  New- 
port. Mrs.  Clyde  wished  her  to  have  the  sanc- 
tion of  the  British  capital  upon  her  debut.  The 
ladies  had  a  suite  of  rooms  at  a  convenient  inn 
210 


Mrs.  Clyde 

in  a  desirable  quarter  of  the  city.  It  was  April. 
The  queen  had  vouchsafed  to  smile  upon  her 
subjects  and  a  few  flitting  Americans  on  the  fol- 
lowing day  at  twelve  o'clock.  Mrs.  Clyde  was 
exceedingly  anxious,  for  reasons  best  known  to 
herself,  to  do  credit  to  her  nation  on  this  occa- 
sion. No  stone  had  been  left  unturned,  no  ex- 
pense spared.  The  toilettes  were  enchanting. 
The  Duchess  of  Montclair's  carriage  was  to  be 
sent  for  her — a  consummation  compassed  with 
what  skill  and  strategy!  She  felt  the  harmony 
of  Pauline's  whole  career  hung  on  this  overture. 
They  were  trying  on  their  veils,  feathers  and 
mantles  amid  coiffeurs,  court  dressmakers,  ad- 
miring maids,  the  hotel  housekeeper,  an  aproned 
waiter  or  two  and  the  man  who  fed  the  fires. 
There  came  a  sudden  rap  at  the  vestibule  door. 
A  blue  envelope  handed  from  one  to  another 
found  its  way  into  Mrs.  Clyde's  hands.  It  was 
directed  to  Miss  Stafford.  Miss  Stafford  was 
out.  Mrs.  Clyde  turned  it  over  in  her  fingers 
once  or  twice.  It  was  a  cablegram.  Not  over- 
scrupulous when  curiosity  possessed  her,  she 
forced  the  lightly  glued  envelope.  It  opened. 
She  read  the  contents.  Her  first  impulse  was 

211 


Mrs.  Clyde 

to  conceal  it  in  her  bosom,  tear  it,  hide  all  traces 
of  it,  not  to  know  of  it  until — until — to-morrow 
— after — Buckingham  Palace.  Her  next,  more 
worthy,  was  shame  for  the  impulse.  She  gave 
a  cry  and  staggered  forward  to  the  sofa.  Paul- 
ine ran  forward  and  caught  her. 

"Your  papa,  your  papa!"  she  gasped. 
"  Oh,  your  poor  papa!  "  She  turned  a  ghastly 
face. 

When  all  the  people  had  been  hurried  out 
and  the  finery,  she  lay  on  the  bed  with  Pauline 
beside  her,  the  latter  weeping  bitterly.  By  and 
bye  she  crept  up  and  to  her  trunk  and  herself 
found — she  would  have  no  assistance  from  the 
maid — a  small,  shabby  velvet  case.  She  came 
back  to  the  bed  with  the  thing  in  her  hand.  It 
contained  a  faded  daguerreotype  of  Mr.  Clyde, 
taken  in  his  early  youth  before  she  had  ever 
known  him.  Why  she  always  carried  it  with 
her  she  could  not  have  told — it  was  a  habit. 
He  had  given  it  to  her  on  their  wedding  morn- 
ing. There  were  the  same  straight  hair,  the 
same  resigned  and  melancholy  eyes,  but  there 
was  youth  and  its  certain  sweetness.  Youth 
looking  out  with  its  high  courage,  its  hopes,  its 
212 


Mrs.  Clyde 

aspirations,  its  innocence!  Mrs.  Clyde  looked 
at  it  and  as  she  looked  a  film  gathered  to  her 
eyes.  What  a  god  he  had  been  to  her!  How 
devoted!  how  gentle!  and  he  was  a  strong  man 
and  honest.  She  had  had  no  cause  to  be 
ashamed  of  him.  And  if  ever  she  had  been  so, 
at  this  moment  she  made  amends.  A  sudden  un- 
explained anguish  wrung  her  soul.  In  its  flame 
what  was  false,  base,  artificial,  was  for  a  moment 
consumed.  Never  in  all  the  years  had  he 
spoken  a  harsh  or  unkind  word  to  her.  She  put 
the  picture  back  in  its  case,  closing  it  with  un- 
usual gentleness.  Then  she  held  out  her  empty 
arms  and  the  two  women  mingled  their  tears. 

;'  Your  father  was  an  honest  man,"  she  said 
solemnly  to  Pauline;  "always  remember  it." 

"  Papa  was  an  angel,"  sobbed  the  girl. 

After  going  to  his  room  and  to  his  bed,  Mr. 
Clyde  had  felt  a  sensation  of  mortal  cold.  He 
had  piled  on  the  blankets,  but  no  heat  came, 
although  a  fire  burned  low  in  his  grate.  He  had 
rung  for  his  valet,  apologizing  to  the  man  for 
disturbing  him.  He  had  the  dislike,  born  of  his 
early  New  England  training,  of  troubling  a  serv- 
213 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ant.  Mrs.  Clyde  had  always  said  he  ruined 
them,  and  thus  pushed  her  to  double  severity. 
When  the  doctor  came,  he  already  breathed 
with  difficulty.  He  had  a  pain  in  his  side. 
Ringletta  Crane  and  his  own  sister  were  tele- 
graphed for.  He  died  the  following  day  in  their 
arms.  His  sunken  eyes  wandered  about  the 
room,  helpless,  baffled,  as  if  looking  for  other 
faces  that  were  dearer. 


214 


CHAPTER    XV 

THEIR  mourning  was  brief.  One  who  has 
not  filled  us  in  life  can  not  do  so  in  death.  To 
be  "  dipped  in  ink  "  for  any  length  of  time,  as 
Mrs.  Clyde  had  remarked  to  Mrs.  Devereux, 
was  not  expedient.  And  then,  after  all,  death 
when  not  poisoned  to  us  by  remorse,  is  one  of 
the  gentler  sorrows,  and  so  Pauline  felt  when 
she  remembered  her  dear  father.  The  passions 
which  destroy  and  ravage,  sin  and  its  conse- 
quences, disgrace  and  its  terrors,  make  more 
havoc  of  the  heart  than  the  laying  away  of  a 
beloved  friend  in  the  quiet  earth.  To  be  afraid 
of  life  is  a  crueler  fate.  Pauline  believed  that  he 
was  safe. 

Et  tot,  divine  mart,  ou  tout  rentre  et  s'tfface, 
Accueille  tes  enfants  dans  ton  sein  ttoile". 

As  to   Mrs.   Clyde,   she  was   soon   cheerful 
again.     As   she   would   have   said,    "  one   must 
shake  one's  self  up."     She  adopted  the  English 
215 


Mrs.  Clyde 

fashion,  no  doubt  a  wise  one,  of  a  short  retire- 
ment. In  a  year  they  were  again  in  London, 
where  she  insisted  on  sending  Pauline  to  a  draw- 
ing-room, a  court  ball  and  a  garden  fete,  charm- 
ingly attired  in  black  and  white,  under  the  au- 
gust wing  of  the  Duchess  of  Montclair.  In  less 
than  two  years  she  herself,  in  mauve  velvet,  was 
launching  her  daughter  into  the  maelstrom  of 
Newport.  It  was  a  little  soon,  but  one  must 
overdo  or  underdo  to  get  on  at  all. 

Mrs.  Clyde  felt  that  the  inertia  of  the  best 
things  is  such  that  without  compulsion  they 
will  never  move  toward  us.  Drastic  measures 
alone  could  secure  them.  Then  why  hide  one's 
talents  in  a  napkin?  Such  social  genius  as  hers 
was  no  mean  gift.  Some  said  that  it  was  God- 
given;  others,  that  it  came  straight  from  the 
devil.  The  world,  with  its  usual  lack  of  critical 
acumen,  judged  her  with  stupendous  ignorance. 
But  why  examine  too  closely  into  the  sources  of 
benefit?  She  meant,  at  any  rate,  to  amuse  the 
world.  For  what  were  the  marvellous  memory 
which  remembered  the  guests  of  every  dinner 
and  how  they  should  be  placed;  that  quick  tact 
which  put  people  at  their  ease,  soothed  ruffled 
216 


Mrs.  Clyde 

vanities,  encouraged  faltering  effort,  above  all 
knew  unerringly  who  were  born  to  victory,  who 
to  defeat — for  what  were  these  things  given  to 
her  if  not  for  use?  And  she  was  kindly,  too, 
with  that  kindness  which  is  mistaken  for  warm~ 
heartedness.  Could  help  the  climbers,  she  who 
had  climbed;  was  not  a  snob  but  catholic,  im- 
posing on  the  obdurate  those  whom  she  saw  fit 
that  they  should  recognise,  while  quietly  dis- 
carding the  heavy-weights  who  brought  no 
beauty  or  distinction  to  the  feast.  She  had  no 
patience  with  that  form  of  pride  which,  while 
vaunting  its  independence,  preys  upon  others. 
Growing  indolent  about  self-cultivation,  she 
wished  art,  literature,  politics,  discussed  in  her 
drawing-rooms.  She  therefore  surrounded  her- 
self with  clever  people  who  learned  these  things 
that  she  might  draw  from  their  ideas  and  be  ab- 
solved from  thinking  and  reading  for  herself. 
There  was  so  little  time! 

In  the  Devereux  dovecote  during  these  years 
there  had  been  changes.  At  eighteen  Coy  had 
married  Ovid  Train.  Six  months  later  she 
was  a  widow.  Always  of  sickly  frame,  he  had 
succumbed  to  an  attack  of  fever.  A  child  in 
217 


Mrs.  Clyde 

years,  his  wife  found  herself  free  and  mistress  of 
a  large  fortune.  She  was  still  in  her  mourning 
when  she  came  to  visit  her  friends  at  Newport. 
There  was,  however,  a  certain  grace  in  the  cut  of 
her  garments;  they  were  elegant  in  design:  and 
her  white  fingers  were  laden  with  rings.  She  was 
a  poetic-looking  creature  in  her  sombre  attire, 
with  round  purple  eyes,  like  iris  flowers;  soft 
waving  hair;  a  willowy  figure,  and  on  her  brow 
the  candour  of  one  of  Perugino's  trumpeting 
angels.  She  brought  with  her  her  own  horses 
and  phaeton  and  footmen,  and,  although  she  af- 
fected not  to  drive  in  Bellevue  Avenue,  was  fre- 
quently seen  to  cross  that  inconvenient  thor- 
oughfare while  seeking  quiet  alleys.  She  had 
been  perfectly  happy  with  her  Ovid,  as,  in  fact, 
she  would  have  been  with  almost  any  man  who 
did  not  beat  her.  Her  quiet  senses  made  dis- 
gust difficult  to  her,  while  a  native  rectitude 
made  her  conscientiously  afraid  of  complication. 
She  was  grateful  to  the  hand  which  gave  to  her 
what  she  most  craved — a  fitting  framework  to 
her  loveliness.  In  this  loveliness  she  had  that 
frank  delight  which  turns  the  woman  into  the 
priestess.  Her  vanity  was  so  absorbing  as  to 
218 


Mrs.  Clyde 

become  naive.  Whether  she  impressed  others 
deeply  or  not  was  of  no  moment,  so  completely 
was  she  a  heroine  unto  herself.  Luxury,  state, 
etiquette,  a  retinue  of  servants,  were  not  with 
her  steps  to  an  end,  as  in  Mrs.  Clyde's  case,  but 
ends  themselves.  She  rather  feared  the  world, 
there  were  so  many  other  women  in  it!  She 
wished  to  pose,  not  to  command.  Tableau 
suited  her  better  than  drama.  The  pleasure  that 
she  had  felt  in  Mrs.  Clyde's  dressing-room  was 
in  probing  how  these  things  were  done.  I  have 
said  that  she  would  have  been  happy  with  almost 
any  man — one  clause  was  needful,  he  must  ad- 
mire her.  Love  and  fidelity  were  of  less  conse- 
quence; in  fact,  it  was  always  difficult  to  under- 
stand if  Mrs.  Train  knew  evil  existed,  so  deftly 
could  she  ignore  it.  So  self-concentred  was 
she  in  her  own  performance  that  that  of  others 
was  belittled.  Had  her  husband  come  home  to 
her  each  night  intoxicated,  she  would  not  have 
observed  it.  Had  she  surprised  him  in  another 
woman's  arms,  she  would  have  smiled  away  the 
optical  illusion.  With  all  this,  she  was  perfectly 
amiable,  refined,  lovable  to  such  as  did  not  look 
for  transport.  Mrs.  Clyde  felt  a  proper  respect 
219 


Mrs.  Clyde 

for  a  woman  who  had  managed  to  be  a  widow  at 
twenty,  with  a  large  income  and  no  incum- 
brances.  Had  Mrs.  Train  poisoned  her  hus- 
band's father  and  mother  and  then  himself  and 
never  been  discovered,  she  could  not  have  felt 
a  greater  esteem  for  her  skill.  The  capacity  to 
rid  one's  self  of  nuisances  seemed  to  Mrs.  Clyde 
invaluable. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said  to  Mr.  Remington, 
"  she  owes  everything  to  me.  I  dressed  her, 
taught  her,  turned  her  out  what  she  is,  and 
young  Train  had  eyes  and  he  was  captivated." 
She  did  not  purpose  that  Clara  should  invalidate 
the  claim  to  gratefulness. 

Mrs.  Train  in  her  prosperity  was  not  inclined 
to  cavil,  and  she  took  these  mild  reminders  with 
exemplary  gentleness.  For  even  to  her  the 
debt  was  once  and  again  hinted  at.  But  Ga- 
briella  had  to  acknowledge  the  ground  on 
which  she  had  sown  seed  in  this  case  had  been 
fecund. 

It  was  otherwise  with  Pauline.     Pauline  was 

less  malleable;  in  fact,  she  was  not  malleable  at 

all.     Ever  and  anon  her  mother,  in  dealing  with 

her,  came  upon  a  wall  of  adamant,  an  unguessed 

220 


Mrs.  Clyde 

force,  a  strange  tenacity,  an  exasperating  deter- 
mination, which  one  might  beat  against  in  vain; 
and  in  such  trivial  matters  too!  Pauline  dressed 
charmingly,  but  severely.  She  understood  her 
own  type  perfectly  and  disliked  picturesqueness. 
Her  mother  thought  her  taste  too  simple.  One 
evening  when  she  came  down  into  the  white 
gloom  of  the  great  hall  without  a  jewel  on,  and 
with  her  hair  behind  her  ears  austere  in  its  Greek 
coil,  her  mother  felt  provoked. 

"  Where  is  your  necklace? "  she  asked, 
frowning. 

"  I  don't  like  it." 

"  Go  upstairs  and  put  it  on." 

"  I  would  rather  not." 

"  At  least  put  a  rose  in  your  hair;  you  look 
like  Cinderella." 

"  Cinderella  captivated  the  prince,"  said  the 
girl  with  her  sudden  smile,  which  showed  that 
Miss  Clyde  had  gauged  her  mother  with  perspi- 
cuity. 

"  The  princes  of  fairy  tales  are  not  those  of 
modern  society.  It  is  ridiculous  to  adopt  this 
schoolgirl  style,  a  girl  of  your  height." 

"  Roses  in  my  hair  would  entirely  ruin  this 
15  221 


Mrs.  Clyde 

classic  frock.  Why,  mamma,  how  can't  you  see 
it?" 

"  I  see  that  you  look  like  a  guy,  and  you 
shan't  budge  out  of  this  house.  Wait  a  min- 
ute." 

The  girl  sighed  and  seated  herself  on  an  otto- 
man in  the  hall  where  they  were  still  standing, 
dropping  her  wrap  from  her  shoulder.  Pauline 
watched  her  mother  ascend  the  stairs  and  dis- 
appear upon  the  upper  landing.  The  footman 
was  holding  open  the  great  front  door,  past 
which  gusts  blew  in  from  the  sea,  tossing  the 
lamp-shades  hither  and  thither  and  waving  the 
branches  of  the  giant  palms  which  lined  the 
antechamber  in  their  Delft  pots.  The  maid  was 
waiting  for  her  young  mistress  in  the  vestibule. 
She  was  an  elderly  English  woman  privileged  to 
this  duty  of  convoy.  By  and  bye,  somewhat 
flushed  and  rather  breathless,  Mrs.  Clyde  re- 
turned, holding  two  large  dishevelled  artificial 
roses  in  her  hand. 

"  I  tore  them  out  of  my  pink  silk.     They 

have  got  a  little  crushed.     Where  Martine  is, 

heaven  only  knows.     The  instant  my  back  is 

turned  that  girl  is  in  the  pantry  flirting  with  the 

222 


Mrs.  Clyde 

men;  it  is  not  decent.  I  shall  dismiss  her.  I 
won't  put  up  one  minute  more  with  her  im- 
pertinence; don't  wriggle  so;  keep  quiet;  "  and 
Mrs.  Clyde  proceeded  to  plant  the  flowers  into 
her  daughter's  unwilling  head. 

Once  in  the  brougham,  Miss  Clyde  lowered 
the  window  and,  slowly  and  carefully,  so  as  not 
to  disarrange  her  locks,  pulled  out  the  recreant 
blossoms.  She  dropped  them  into  the  road. 

"  Your  mamma  will  be  very  angry,  miss," 
said  the  maid.  To  which  Miss  Pauline  replied 
by  a  slight  shrug. 

She  made  her  courtesy  as  unruffled  as  if  her 
mother's  wrath  did  not  await  her  home-coming. 

As  we  have  given  glimpses  of  this  young 
lady's  mental  and  moral  peculiarities,  it  is  per- 
haps as  well  to  linger  for  a  moment  upon  her 
person,  to  sketch  her  au  physique: 

Pauline  was  tall  and  finely  built,  and  so  far 
like  her  mother,  but  further  than  this  it  could 
not  be  said  of  her  that  she  resembled  either  of 
her  parents;  except,  indeed,  that  she  had  drawn 
from  Mrs.  Clyde  vigour  and  health  and  from  her 
father  a  certain  gravity.  While  her  papa  and 
her  mamma  were  dark,  Pauline  was  of  a  Saxon, 
223 


Mrs.  Clyde 

or  rather,  Scandinavian  type.  Her  strong 
young  throat  was  full  and  dazzlingly  fair,  her 
skin  rather  creamy  than  roseate.  Her  hair  had 
turned  from  babyhood's  spun  flax  to  an  ashy 
hue  with  streaks  of  copper  in  it.  Her  eyes,  of  a 
pale  gray,  bordered  with  thick  short  lashes 
darker  than  the  hair,  had  silvery  lights  in  them; 
they  were  sometimes  iridescent  like  pearls.  In 
excitement  they  gloomed  into  that  troubled,  in- 
distinct colour  which  the  French  call  London 
smoke.  Her  nose,  superbly  planted,  started 
with  Greek  intention  but  changed  its  charming 
mind  and  at  its  tip  turned  slightly,  very  slightly 
upward.  This  gave  a  touching  cast  of  girlish- 
ness  to  a  physiognomy  which  else  had  been 
somewhat  severe.  The  beautiful  firm  lips  were 
strangely  serious.  Her  hands  and  feet  were 
longer,  narrower,  than  her  mother's,  the  wrists 
and  ankles  slenderer;  in  fact,  the  note  of  gross- 
ness  in  Gabriella's  beauty  was  refined  and 
brought  to  semi-tones  in  her  young  daughter's. 
Of  these  attractions  Pauline  was  not  uncon- 
scious. Eighteen  years  of  constant  adoration 
had  done  their  work.  She  knew  her  worth. 
She  carried  herself  with  that  pride  which  lay  not 
224 


Mrs.  Clyde 

in  what  she  possessed,  but  in  what  she  was.  She 
expected  homage  and  meant  to  have  it,  but  it 
was  to  be  a  tribute  to  herself  and  not  to  her 
position. 

Simple  as  her  taste  might  seem  to  her  moth- 
er's florid  fancy,  Miss  Clyde  was  luxurious 
enough.  If  her  outer  garments  were  not  redun- 
dant of  garniture  and  tinsel,  the  hidden  ones 
were  dainty  to  extreme.  She  was  fastidious 
even  to  painfulness.  And  she  was  happy- 
hearted,  full  of  the  joy  of  robust  youth.  No 
brighter  image  could  greet  the  eye  than  she  pre- 
sented galloping  over  the  country  on  her  thor- 
oughbred mare  Lady  Falese,  followed  by  her 
breeched  and  booted  groom,  with  her  dog  Prax- 
iteles yapping  at  their  heels.  Weak  and  strug- 
gling natures  turned  instinctively  to  drink  at 
the  unspent  fountain  of  her  calm  strength. 
Hers  was  one  of  those  natures  to  which  the 
vacillating,  the  erring,  the  unsuccessful  ones  of 
earth  cling  with  passionate  hands,  crying  for 
succour.  Her  presence  brought  it.  It  was  this 
secret  strength,  perhaps,  which  so  attracted  to 
her  a  struggler  in  life's  battle.  It  seemed,  how- 
ever, if  industry  and  talent  count  for  aught,  that 
225 


Mrs.  Clyde 

he  would  be  a  vanquisher.  His  name  was 
Launcelot  Trefusis.  Like  Miss  Clyde,  an  only 
child,  of  New  England  ancestry,  he  had  been  less 
favoured  by  fortune.  He  lived  with  his  parents 
in  a  rambling  colonial  house  in  the  old  town. 
His  father  was  an  invalid,  his  mother  her  hus- 
band's nurse.  It  was  a  dull  home  and  they  were 
poor.  Broken  health  had  wrecked  his  father's 
career  of  usefulness;  the  son,  just  leaving  the 
law  school  of  Harvard,  had  assumed  at  once  the 
responsibilities  of  his  father's  office.  He  was  a 
lawyer  with  a  growing  practice.  The  world  of 
fashion  surged  about  his  parents,  but  they  had 
left  it  untried  and  unsought.  The  young  Har- 
vard graduate,  however,  had  made  friends  at 
college  and  was  persona  grata  in  certain  house- 
holds. -He  had  little  leisure  to  give  to  society, 
but  lately  he  had  sought  it  more,  since  that  after- 
noon a  girl  had  said  to  him,  "  Are  you  going  to 
Pauline  Clyde's  coming-out  reception?  Every- 
body will  go  if  they  have  to  be  carried  on  a  shut- 
ter." He  remembered  that  he  had  received  a 
card.  The  invitation  proved  catholicity. 

Not  on  a  shutter,  but  on  his  own  energetic 
legs,  the  young  man  had  been  conveyed  to  Nar- 
226 


Mrs.  Clyde 

cissa  Villa,  through  some  vagrant  impulse;  and 
there  had  seen  the  maiden  in  her  white  frock, 
her  hands  laden  with  flowers,  and  had  for  the 
first  time  looked  into  those  eyes  in  which  there 
lurked  for  him  from  that  hour  such  mystery. 

Pauline  had  condescended  to  accord  him 
fully  five  minutes  of  her  attention,  at  which  he 
felt  grateful,  not  elated.  The  fact  is,  he  was  not 
quite  unknown  to  her.  He  represented  to  her 
one  of  those  interesting  books  whose  pages  we 
have  fluttered  but  not  yet  perused.  She  had 
seen  a  photograph  of  him  on  a  friend's  mantel- 
shelf; she  had  paused  before  it,  contemplative. 

"  Who  is  this  fellow?  "  she  had  asked,  after 
a  long  survey. 

"  Don't  you  know  him?  He  is  awfully 
clever.  He  went  up  to  Boston  for  the  Bird  trial 
the  other  day.  Papa  says  his  address  to  the  jury 
was  quite  wonderful.  He  is  a  son  of  that  Mr. 
Trefusis  who  had  a  practice  in  Rhode  Island  but 
was  paralyzed,  poor  thing,  or  something.  He 
was  a  chum  of  my  brother  Harry's." 

This  brief  epitome  of  Launcelot  Trefusis's 
career  and  antecedents  was  listened  to  in  silence. 

"  He  looks  different  from  the  men  here." 
227 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  How  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Oh,  less  vapid,  voila  tout!  He  has  got  nice 
eyes,  hasn't  he?  " 

"  Nice!  Well,  just  wait  until  you  see  them 
better,"  said  the  girl,  enigmatical  and  blushing. 

Pauline  changed  the  conversation.  She  met 
those  eyes  on  the  day  of  her  formal  debut  as  they 
sank  into  hers  with  their  earnest  questionings, 
and  she  was  once  more  inclined  to  think  them 
"  nice." 

Launcelot  Trefusis,  or  Launce,  as  his  friends 
called  him,  was  in  fact  extremely  handsome, 
with  his  clear  olive  complexion;  his  luminous 
regard;  his  tall,  spare,  agile  figure;  his  short, 
dark,  curly  hair,  and  the  flash  of  his  enlighten- 
ing smile — a  smile  which  gave  the  key  to  a  man- 
ly heart:  but  there  was  a  touch  of  cynicism 
about  him,  not  cheap  and  born  of  envy,  but 
springing  from  early  struggle,  which  had  forced 
him  to  weigh  motive  and  distrust  men.  He  was 
presented  upon  this  occasion  to  several  mag- 
nates: to  the  Princess  d'Istria,  who  was  trailing 
her  ennui  through  the  Newport  season,  with  its 
pallor  painted  on  brow  and  cheek;  to  Mrs. 
Train,  who  held  her  cour,t  in  the  boudoir  from 
228 


Mrs.  Clyde 

which  she  insisted  that  her  mourning  would  not 
permit  her  to  emerge;  and,  on  the  wing,  to  an- 
other "  fellow  " — to  the  Viscount  Beaumains, 
who  was  here  in  passing  on  his  way  to  a  vague 
"  West."  The  men  shook  hands.  They  lin- 
gered near  Mrs.  Train,  who  proved  equal  to  re- 
taining them  both,  with  her  soft  languors.  But 
Trefusis  was  restless.  His  eyes  wandered  con- 
tinually away  to  where  Pauline  and  her  mother 
stood,  swayed  by  the  crowd,  murmuring  their 
welcomings  to  the  inpouring  guests. 


229 


CHAPTER    XVI 

MRS.  CLYDE  had  a  large  foreign  correspond- 
ence. One  day  she  received  a  letter  bearing 
the  English  postmark,  addressed  in  a  handwrit- 
ing not  entirely  unfamiliar  to  her.  Where  had 
she  before  seen  this  bold  chirography?  She 
opened  the  letter.  It  ran  thus: 

"Mv  DEAR  MADAM: 

"  When  you  have  passed  through  England  I 
have  deeply  deplored  that  I  was  detained  by 
political  and  other  matters  at  Beaumains  and 
thus  prevented  from  running  up  to  London  to 
kiss  your  hand.  I  remember  that  hand  well — 
it  once  boxed  my  ears,  and  it  did  quite  right. 
The  years,  which  have  only  added  to  your 
charms,  have  sobered  me.  I  now  recognise 
what  a  ruffian  I  used  to  be  and  must  have  ap- 
peared to  you.  You  are  a  grande  dame  and 
therefore  born  to  pardon.  I,  your  humble  serv- 
230 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ant,  beg  for  your  leniency.  Prove  it  by  being 
kind  to  my  boy,  who  bears  you  this.  He  is  go- 
ing over  to  the  States  for  six  months  or  twelve. 
I  hope  you  will  like  him.  Marry  him  to  some 
lovely  American,  if  you  can.  Present  him,  if 
you  will,  to  your  fair  daughter,  who  is,  I  hear, 
as  beautiful,  wise  and  virtuous  as  her  mother. 

Je  me  prosterne  a  vos  pieds. 

"  DEARBORN." 

Mrs.  Clyde's  desk  was  charged  with  papers, 
books  and  bills.  She  brushed  these  now  aside 
with  nervous  hands.  They  could  wait.  She  sat 
pondering  over  the  ambiguous  yet  clear  mean- 
ings of  this  unlooked-for  missive.  Beaumains! 
To-day  in  point  of  birth,  position,  ancestry,  the 
first  parti  in  England.  Now  Viscount  Beau- 
mains — Earl  of  Dearborn  some  day — master  of 
great  houses  chronicled  in  history,  of  peerless 
lands  extolled  in  verse.  She  had  heard  his  fa\ 
ther  was  in  ill  health — the  result,  no  doubt,  of 
his  dissipations.  Of  the  son,  too,  she  had  heard 
unpleasant  things,  but  she  tried  to  forget  them. 
Mrs.  Clyde  had  a  wide  capacity  in  this  direction. 
Of  money  there  was  not  much,  but  Pauline 
would  have  enough.  What  sacrifice  would  she 
231 


Mrs.  Clyde 

not  make  of  her  own  income  for  her  only  child? 
What  a  blast  this  for  her  enemies!  What  a  tri- 
umph for  herself!  For  even  though  one  bears 
few  rancours,  though  one  prays  to  be  forgiven  as 
one  forgives,  there  is  always  the  exception  made 
of  Maria,  who  really  was  too  nasty;  of  Jose- 
phine, who  sinned  beyond  all  patience  and  can 
not  expect  divine  indulgence. 

Would  Pauline  lend  herself  to  this  new  de- 
sire, none  the  less  violent  because  so  lately  born? 
She  judged  her  daughter's  character  too  well  to 
believe  her  absolutely  without  ambition.  She 
had  not  been  brought  up  in  squalor,  she  would 
surely  not  choose  obscurity — it  was  impossible. 
She  who  so  looked  a  queen,  could  she  be  made 
one?  or  would  there  be  internecine  war?  And 
if  the  girl  had  ambitions,  what  were  they?  At 
the  mere  thought  that  they  might  not  be  the 
same  as  hers  she  trembled.  "  I  have  sown,  all  I 
ask  is  that  she  shall  reap,"  she  cried  to  herself  in 
unconscious  pathos.  Well,  she  would  not  in- 
vite defeat  by  undue  precipitation;  she  would 
play  her  game  warily,  using  stratagem.  To  her 
impulsive  character  this  was  not  pleasant.  She 
did  not  always  feel  at  ease  in  Pauline's  company, 
232 


Mrs.  Clyde 

as  she  did  in  Coy  Train's.  Pauline  had  a  way 
of  looking  at  her  searchingly,  which  made  her 
uncomfortable. 

"  She  is  so  dreadfully  high-toned,"  she  once 
said,  laughing,  to  Mrs.  Train.  Gabriella  par- 
doned Coy's  artless  volubility  on  the  plea  that 
she  was  one  of  those  foolish  talkers  who  do  wise 
things. 

She  was  sitting  at  her  dressing-table  powder- 
ing her  face  after  a  long,  hot  drive,  and  passed 
the  puff  to  Mrs.  Train,  who  sat  beside  her  in  a 
mull  matinee,  making  confidences. 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Train,  sadly,  shaking  her 
pretty  head;  "  no,  since  my  dear  Ovid's  death 
I  have  never  powdered  my  nose,  however  sun- 
burned, or  waved  my  hair." 

"  I  think  you  would  look  much  better,  then, 
if  you  did,"  said  Mrs.  Clyde.  "  I  can't  see  the 
difference  between  attention  to  one's  person  and 
getting  gowns  and  wraps  from  Worth." 

Mrs.  Train  protested  that  dearest  Ovid  had 
liked  her  to  send  to  Paris  for  her  clothes,  and 
that  she  did  so  as  a  tribute  to  his  memory.  If 
husbands  are  suppressed  in  the  future  revolution 
of  sex,  who  is  to  be  the  scapegoat  of  vagary? 
233 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Mrs.  Clyde  had  no  time  to  waste  in  platitude. 
Continuing  her  own  toilet,  she  unfolded  to  this 
faithful  mourner  her  projects  for  Pauline.  She 
threw  away  the  powder  puff  and  found  sym- 
pathy. 

Lord  Beaumains  came  to  the  reception;  after 
this  he  came  frequently.  Finally,  the  last  two 
weeks  of  his  stay  at  Newport,  he  was  asked  to 
move  himself  and  his  valet  and  his  belongings 
to  Narcissa  Villa,  a  suggestion  to  which  he 
promptly  acceded. 

Beaumains  was  a  small  youth  with  a  thin 
Roman  nose,  a  lupine  mouth  and  a  pasty  voice. 
He  lacked  the  masculinity  and  sturdiness  of  the 
average  Englishman;  had  uncertain  eyes  with  a 
slight  cast  in  them,  so  that  he  never  seemed  to 
meet  a  direct  gaze.  Notwithstanding  these  de- 
fects, he  could  nowhere  have  been  mistaken  for 
other  than  a  gentleman.  He  was  well  educated, 
had  excellent  manners  and  was  devoid  of  osten- 
tation. His  lordly  record  was  not  unflecked;  in 
fact,  there  were  some  ugly  tales  about  his  esca- 
pades, which  savoured  not  only  of  laxity  but  of 
vulgarity.  It  was  difficult  to  believe  them  when 
in  his  company.  He  was  never  coarse  in  word. 
234 


Mrs.  Clyde 

If  he  despised  women,  he  was  courteous  to 
them.  If  he  was  too  fond  of  wine,  he  did  not 
get  drunk  in  public;  and  when  he  lost  money  at 
cards  he  paid  promptly  and  was  never  cross. 
Mrs.  Clyde  decided  the  rumours  to  be  exag- 
gerated. 

"  Can  you  believe  the  stories  against  him?  " 
she  asked,  not  without  some  measure  of  anxiety, 
of  Mrs.  Train. 

"  I  never  heard  any,"  answered  this  lady, 
with  her  bland,  unfailing  optimism.  Her  pre- 
conceived opinions  of  people  often  forced  them 
to  a  conscious  hypocrisy.  It  is  easier  to  be 
what  people  believe  us. 

It  suited  the  indolence  of  her  constitution  to 
be  confident  that  everybody  was  good  and  con- 
tented. This  obtuseness  hardly  deserves  the 
name  of  charity — it  merely  never  perceives  any- 
thing which  offends.  One  revenges  one's  dis- 
ingenuousness  in  dealing  with  such  persons  by 
the  hugged  thought,  "  Ah,  if  they  only  knew  me 
as  I  am!  "  and  one  grows  almost  proud  of  turpi- 
tude. Her  answer  at  this  juncture  suited  her 
hostess.  It  was  trenchant  and  disarmed  discus- 
sion. 

235 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Pauline  treated  the  English  guest  with  per- 
fect cordiality.  She  found  him  passably  agree- 
able. He  was  devoted  to  her  and  to  Mrs.  Train, 
joining  the  young  women  in  their  drives,  rides 
and  rambles,  and  Mrs.  Clyde,  glad  of  Coy's 
chaperonage,  felt  all  was  progressing  as  she 
wished. 

"  Will  she  marry  her  girl  to  Beaumains?  " 
the  Princess  d'Istria  asked  Mr.  Remington,  rais- 
ing her  lorgnon  as  Mrs.  Clyde  passed  her  on  the 
young  man's  arm. 

He  laughed.  "  I  have  sometimes  imagined 
that  Miss  Pauline,  who  turns  everybody's  head 
except  her  own,  will  marry  herself." 

"  I  married  myself,"  said  Madame  d'Istria, 
"  and  a  pretty  mess  I  made  of  it.  After  all,  our 
parents  know  best.  Mine  warned  me,  but  I 
would  not  listen.  I  was  obstinate  and  am  pun- 
ished." 

"  Should  you  advise  Beaumains  and  obedi- 
ence? " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  On  dit  he  is 
a  mauvais  sujet,  but  who  can  tell?  Harry  Dai- 
ton  made  the  best  of  husbands  and  Harry  was 
larky  in  his  younger  years.  The  girl  interests 
236 


Mrs.  Clyde 

me  far  more  than  the  mother,  who  is  vulgar. 
She  is  actually  distinguished;  it  is  wonderful." 

"Oh!  oh!  my  dear  lady,  you  go  too  fast. 
Vulgar  is  a  strong  word.  I  have  watched  Mrs. 
Clyde  so  long  now  I  am  like  a  hen  with  its  chick. 
Don't  be  too  hard  on  her.  She  is  worth  twenty 
Paulines,  is  Gabriella!  Look  at  her  now!  See 
her  arrange  those  cotillion  chairs  for  the  late 
comers  with  one  eye  on  the  supper  table,  one  on 
the  British  minister,  Sir  Peveril  Lightpace,  and 
one  on  her  English  lordship.  Do  you  call  that 
vulgar?  I  call  it  divine." 

"  Oh,  she  knows  how!  "  said  the  princess, 
smiling. 

"  Is  there  a  more  agreeable  house  in  New- 
port? " 

"  No,"  said  Madame  d'Istria. 

Pauline  was  in  such  a  condition  of  tran- 
scendental happiness  in  these  days  that  some  of 
her  full  cup  of  rapture  bubbled  over  and  spilled 
itself  on  all  who  approached  her.  Beaumains 
thought  her  kindness  itself.  An  aureole  encir- 
cled her;  all  who  came  within  its  rays  were  illu- 
mined. It  blinded  her  mother. 

At  night  when  all  the  lights  were  out  and 
16  237 


Mrs.  Clyde 

her  mother  was  fast  asleep  in  the  big  room 
across  the  hall,  the  last  servant  gone  to  his  rest, 
the  girl  would  spring  from  out  her  bed  and  with 
bare  white  feet  run  across  the  carpet  to  the  small 
ormolu  chest,  from  whose  drawers  she  quickly 
drew  a  bundle  of  letters.  With  these  clasped 
against  her  breast  she  came  back  to  her  warm 
couch,  whose  broidered  draperies  and  swandown 
quilt  she  drew  about  her.  Then,  her  head  propped 
on  the  lace  pillows,  pulling  the  candle  close  to  her 
side  on  the  light  table  where  it  stood,  she  read. 
We  will  look  over  her  shoulder  a  moment: 

"  DEAR  Miss  CLYDE: 

"  I  passed  close  to  you  on  the  cliff  yesterday 
and  you  did  not  give  me  even  a  nod.  Am  I  im- 
portunate in  asking  you  why?  You  were  walk- 
ing with  Mrs.  Train.  Ah,  you  could  not  have 
seen  me;  say  that  you  did  not!  For  there  is 
nothing  small  about  you;  you  would  not  willing- 
ly wound.  Nothing  small  unless,  indeed,  it  be 
your  tiny  ear,  your  beautiful  mouth  and  the  little 
heel  under  which  you  crush  my  heart. 
"  Faithfully  yours, 

"  LAUNCELOT  TREFUSIS." 
238 


Mrs.  Clyde 
The  next  began  abruptly: 

"  Ah,  I  knew  you  could  not  willingly  hurt 
me,  and  to-day  when  I  came  you  told  me  you 
had  not  seen  me.  What  do  you  think  about  so 
deeply  when  you  walk  beside  the  sea?  Some 
day  I  will  tell  you  what  /  think  of  every  hour, 
and  all  the  madness  of  my  thought.  Will  you 
wear  these  alamander  flowers  in  your  girdle  to- 
night? I  dare  not  ask  for  them  a  place  on  your 
fair  breast,  their  creamy  hue  would  suffer  in  the 
contact — they  are  too  dark.  Yours  devotedly, 

"  L.  T." 

"  Why  did  you  smile  at  me  as  you  passed  me 
at  the  dance?  You  are  infinitely  cruel.  O 
that  you  would  frown!  I  wanted  you  to  frown 
and  you  smiled,  and  ever  since  that  smiling  I 
have  known  torment.  Ah!  it  is  much  better 
you  should  not  smile  at  men  if  they  are  to  live  at 
all  and  go  into  lawyers'  dens  and  wrangle  with 
witnesses  and  do  all  the  mean  and  miserable 
things  that  slaves  must  do.  Your  smile  was  not 
even  mocking,  so  that  I  could  be  angry,  but,  oh, 
such  a  heavenly  ray!  Do  you  know,  the  very 
first  time  that  I  saw  you  I  felt  that  to  see  you 
239 


Mrs.  Clyde 

often  would  be  not  only  dangerous  but  culpable 
— a  crime?  Why?  I  know  not.  I  have  heard 
voices  more  sonorous,  powerful  and  splendid 
than  yours,  yet  when  you  sang  that  little  song 
the  evening  at  Mrs.  Heathcote's  you  can  not 
fancy  my  sensations.  There  is  something  in 
your  voice  which  frightens  me.  A  delicious 
fear  that  clutches  the  heart  with  its  anguish — it 
is  a  sort  of  curiosity  of  suffering.  I  felt  I  was 
lost  and  it  was  already  too  late  to  struggle. 
You  do  not  sing  like  some  women,  with  tender- 
ness, with  insolence  or  with  passion;  you  simply 
sing,  that  is  all;  like  a  bird  or  a  child,  but  in  so 
doing  you  become  an  instrument  of  fate.  Your 
voice  is  as  peculiar  as  those  silvery  eyes  of  yours. 
But  I  would  have  you  lose  none  of  its  uncon- 
sciousness; I  am  therefore  wrong  to  tell  you  all 
this.  But  you  will  not  care,  not  in  the  least, 
only — never,  never  smile  on  me  again — frown. 

Your  slave, 

"  L.  T." 

It  will  be  seen  that  this  stylist  was  not  a  mod- 
ern  telegrapher   in   his   wooing.     Perhaps,   for 
this,  peculiarly  fitted  to  appeal  to  an  imagina- 
tion which  Mrs.  Clyde  called  "  exaltee" 
240 


Mrs.  Clyde 

There  had  been  a  dance  at  Villa  Narcissa. 
The  last  guests  were  driving  away.  A  few  inde- 
fatigable debutantes  and  boys  were  taking  a  last 
whirl  in  the  ball-room  while  their  tired  mammas 
admonished  them  from  the  doors:  "  Come, 
Kitty!  come,  Bella!  come,  come;  it  is  shock- 
ingly late.  Mrs.  Clyde  is  patient  not  to  put  us 
all  out.  Bless  me,  it  will  soon  be  breakfast 
time." 

A  girl,  all  legs,  arms  and  mane,  like  an  un- 
broken colt,  was  romping  wildly  with  torn  tulle 
hanging  about  her  flying  feet,  laughing  shrilly, 
hoydenish,  with  baby  ringlets,  sexless,  enjoying 
the  exercise.  Her  partner,  not  much  older,  the 
down  of  early  manhood  on  his  lip,  its  melan- 
choly in  his  eyes,  a  trifle  hesitant  and  timid,  tried 
to  warn  her  heedlessness  of  her  mother's  pres- 
ence and  reprimands. 

"  Let  them  dance,  let  them  dance,"  said  Mrs. 
Clyde  from  the  doorway.  She  would  have 
danced  in  glee  herself  with  these  gay  children, 
so  light  was  her  soul. 

Beaumains  had  spoken  to  her  a  word  that 
afternoon.  Where  was  he  now?  And  Pauline? 
She  had  for  some  time  missed  them  both.  No 
241 


Mrs.  Clyde 

doubt  he  was  declaring  to  her  his  devotion. 
With  this  hope  uppermost,  she  went  to  seek 
them. 

Off  the  hall  was  a  small  conservatory  fitted 
up  with  divans  and  dimly  lit.  They  must  be 
here.  The  rest  of  the  house  party  had  wandered 
into  the  supper  room  to  devour  roast  duck  and 
drink  champagne.  Mrs.  Clyde  could  hear  the 
sound  of  their  distant  hilarity.  She  pushed  the 
heavy  portiere.  Pauline's  pure  profile  shone 
white  against  the  green  background.  A  man 
was  with  her.  They  did  not  notice  the  intruder. 
She  could  hear  the  murmur  of  their  voices. 
By  and  bye,  growing  accustomed  to  the  dark- 
ness, she  could  distinctly  see  his  face,  and  she 
detected  on  it  something  which  startled  her. 
"  Why,"  she  thought,  "  what?  he  too?  "  and 
smiled.  Her  girl  was  certainly  fascinating. 
"  Dear  me,"  she  thought,  "  how  odd!  Rather  a 
bore  though."  Then  Pauline's  nervous  delicacy 
woke  to  a  sense  of  espionage.  She  sighed  and 
moved  and  turned  her  face  full  into  the  ray  of 
her  mother's  vision. 

"  Good  God!  "  Mrs.  Clyde  almost  ejaculated 
aloud,  "  she  loves  him!  "  For  it  was  unmistak- 
242 


Mrs.  Clyde 

able,  the  culprit  colour,  the  tremulous  mouth, 
the  radiance,  the  entrancement — it  had  all  been 
an  instant's  revelation. 

She  was  upon  them.  She  raised  her  hand 
and  shaded  her  eyes,  as  one  would  do  on 
emerging  from  too  bright  a  glare,  to  focus  what 
little  light  there  lingered  here  upon  the  pair. 
They  started  at  sight  of  her.  She  saw  it. 

"  Lord  Beaumains,"  she  said,  "  is  that  you? 
It  is  so  dark  here." 

"  It  is  not  Lord  Beaumains,  mamma,"  said 
Pauline,  quietly;  "it  is  Mr.  Trefusis." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Trefusis,  I  beg  your  pardon. 
You  looked  so  much  at  home  here  I  took  you 
for  one  of — the  house  party,  for — for — Beau- 
mains." 

"  It  is  your  pardon  I  must  beg,"  said  Trefu- 
sis in  a  voice  which,  in  spite  of  himself,  was  agi- 
tated, "  for  having  intruded,  Mrs.  Clyde,  so  late 
upon  your  hospitality.  I  am  mortified  and  you 
do  quite  right  to  rebuke  me." 

He  was  on  his  feet  and  loomed  above  the 
two  women  among  the  palms,  pallid  and  tall. 

She  looked  him  over  insolently.  "  It  is,  in 
fact,  very  late,  and  I  must  really  beg  you  to 
243 


Mrs.  Clyde 

excuse  my  daughter.  She  is  quite  used  up  for 
want  of  sleep,  quite  pulled,  and  must  be  out 
again  to-morrow  night." 

"  Good-evening,"  he  said,  bowing  low. 

"  Good-night,"  said  Pauline,  holding  out  her 
hand  with  frank  cordiality. 

He  leaned  over  it  an  instant,  made  another 
obeisance  before  Mrs.  Clyde  and  was  gone. 

"  So,"  said  Mrs.  Clyde,  "  he  is  spoony  on 
you,  too,  Pauline!  " 

Pauline  yawned  and  stretched  out  her  arms. 
Her  mother  watched  her. 

"  Poor  thing;  rather  presumptuous,  I 
should  say.  He  is  a  nice-looking  fellow,  how- 
ever." 

Pauline,  still  silent  and  not  glancing  at  her 
mother,  walked  across  the  hall  and  began  silent- 
ly to  ascend  the  stairs. 

Trefusis  had  found  his  coat  and  hat  and  had 
gone  out  under  the  stars.  He  was  strangling. 
He  pulled  at  his  collar  and  loosened  it  with  a 
furious  jerk.  There  was  no  moon;  a  salt  smell 
penetrated  the  atmosphere  joined  to  the  nearer 
poignant  perfume  of  heliotrope,  narcissus  and 
mignonette.  The  young  man  took  long  strides, 
244 


Mrs.  Clyde 

breathing  in  the  odours  of  the  flowers  and  of  the 
tides.  His  brain  was  on  fire,  his  whole  being 
in  a  ferment.  Weakly  he  had  yielded  to  that 
overmastering  enchantment  which  has  wrecked 
before  so  many  just  resolves,  timid  irresolutions. 
He  had  heard  the  gossip  of  the  place.  He 
knew,  as  others  knew,  that  Beaumains  was  the 
favoured  aspirant.  He  felt,  as  others  felt,  that 
she  was  worthy  of  a  brilliant  destiny.  What 
had  he  to  offer?  Nothing.  While  she — the 
thought  that  Mrs.  Clyde  might  think  him 
tempted  by  her  fortune  cut  him  like  a  whip. 
Her  money!  Why  it  was  that  which  kept  him 
from  her,  which  quenched  the  word  upon  his 
tongue,  which  paralyzed  his  utterance.  "  Ah," 
he  thought,  "  if  she  were  poor  and  I  might  claim 
her!  Work  for  her!  How  delicious  to  give 
her  everything,  to  have  this  exquisite  creature 
enjoy  the  fruit  of  my  own  toil!  "  He  had  not 
before  thought  himself  capable  of  so  transcend- 
ent an  emotion.  He  had  been  much  like  other 
men.  He  had  never  supposed  that  wealth  could 
make  a  girl  inaccessible  to  him.  Why  should 
it?  Yet  he  was  glad  to-night  that,  looking  in 
his  soul,  he  could  cry  out,  "  Ah,  if  she  only  were 
245 


Mrs.  Clyde 

poor! "  He  had  written  to  her — he  had  to;  he 
felt  that  if  he  could  not  write  to  her  his  heart 
would  break.  His  youth  had  been  hard 
enough;  it  was  hard  now.  Could  he  not  even 
see  a  flower  that  others  might  touch?  But  at 
the  thought  he  shivered.  Others?  What  oth- 
ers? That  reptile  Beaumains!  And  now,  her 
mother  had  dismissed  him,  insultingly  dismissed 
him.  He  could  never  cross  their  threshold 
more.  Yet  she,  she,  angel  of  mercy,  had  for 
one  shy,  sweet  minute  given  him  her  hand. 
Later,  when  he  had  sunk  into  the  sleep  of  youth, 
tossing  upon  his  bed,  the  stars  found  triumph 
on  his  lips,  for  in  his  dreams,  at  least,  he  was 
her  master. 


246 


CHAPTER    XVII 

MRS.  CLYDE  went  from  room  to  room,  or- 
dering candles  and  lamps  extinguished,  seeing 
to  it  that  the  butler  closed  all  the  doors  and  win- 
dows, glowering  at  a  footman  who  was  draining 
the  last  of  the  champagne  and  was  a  trifle  tipsy 
and  jovial.  In  her  tread  there  was  something 
ominous,  which  her  domestics  had  learned  to 
dread  or  laugh  at  according  to  their  dispositions. 
It  was  over  half  an  hour  before  her  hand  fell 
upon  her  daughter's  door-knob.  The  door  was 
locked.  She  shook  it  with  no  gentle  pressure. 
"Pauline!" 

"  What  is  it,  mamma?  "  the  voice  answered, 
muffled,  from  under  bed-curtains. 

"  I  wish  to  speak  with  you." 

"  I  am  in  bed,  mamma!  " 

"  Get  up,  then." 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  want  to,  mamma." 

"  Very  well,  then.     Good-night,  Pauline." 
247 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  Good-night,  mamma." 

Gabriella  went  to  her  room.  She  had  the 
habit  of  going  in  each  night  to  kiss  her  girl. 
She  had  done  it  ever  since  the  latter's  infancy. 
In  that  maternal  caress  whatever  disagreement 
marred  the  hours  of  day,  whatever  misunder- 
standing lurked  between  these  natures,  so  close- 
ly allied  and  yet  so  far  apart,  was  tacitly  ignored 
and  buried.  They  might  arise  to  fresh  discus- 
sion— that  moment  always  brought  its  peace 
and  pardon.  To-night,  that  she  found  her 
child's  door  thus  locked  against  her,  Mrs.  Clyde, 
after  a  hurried  disrobing  and  still  more  hurried 
prayer,  crept  under  her  sheets  with  a  sense  of 
unusual  depression. 

"  It  is  always  so,"  she  thought;  "  life's  best 
chances  come  accompanied  by  something  un- 
locked for  and  disagreeable,  and  all  pleasure  is 
lost." 

She  had  noticed  a  light  in  Beaumains's  apart- 
ments and  a  smell  of  cigarettes  had  induced  in 
her  the  impression  that  her  guest  was  still  awake. 
"  The  fool!  "  she  thought,  "  the  idiot!  smoking 
my  best  cigarettes  while  another  man  is  making 
love  to  the  woman  he  wants!  I  can  tell  him  in 
248 


Mrs.  Clyde 

our  country  women  expect  to  be  won,  if  in  his 
they  drop  into  men's  mouths  unasked."  She 
felt  an  unreasoning  vexation  at  his  supineness 
and  would  have  liked  to  get  up  and  box  his  ears 
for  lack  of  ardour,  as  she  had  his  father's  for 
superabundance  of  this  quality.  "  Dearborn  at 
least  had  some  blood  in  him,"  she  said  aloud, 
addressing  the  red  damask  canopy  over  her 
head.  "  The  young  men  nowadays  are  such 
puppies."  Yes,  she  felt  more  annoyed  at  Beau- 
mains  than  at  Trefusis — because,  of  course,  this 
last  affair  was  preposterous,  a  nightmare  that 
dawn  must  dissipate.  By  and  bye  she  sank 
into  heavy  slumbers.  She  was  still  sleeping 
soundly  when  her  daughter  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment to  listen  on  her  threshold.  Miss  Clyde 
was  in  her  riding  habit.  At  eight  o'clock  the 
sleepy  "  buttons  "  had  been  summoned  to  his 
young  mistress's  room,  had  been  given  a  note  to 
take  into  the  town.  At  half-past  nine,  Pauline 
was  in  the  saddle.  The  note,  which  was  ad- 
dressed to  Trefusis,  ran  thus: 

"  Meet  me  at  a  quarter  before  ten  in  Mrs. 
Gresham's     summer-house     upon     the     Cliffs. 
249 


Mrs.  Clyde 

They  are  away,  you  know,  and  I  can  see  you 
there  for  a  moment  undisturbed.  I  wish  to 
speak  with  you." 

Reaching  the  Cliffs  at  a  quick  canter,  she 
slipped  unaided  to  the  ground,  threw  the  reins 
to  the  attending  groom,  picked  up  her  skirt  and 
quickly  tripped  along  the  gravel  path  which 
hems  the  sodded  banks.  Less  than  five  min- 
utes brought  her  to  the  Jack  Greshams'  rustic 
retreat;  less  than  five  seconds  told  her  that  he 
was  there.  She  sank  upon  the  seat  beside  him, 
a  little  breathless.  Her  riding  habit,  her  whip 
and  buckskin  gloves,  her  high  topboots,  the 
derby  hat  over  her  low  hair,  her  taut  light  vest, 
gave  her  the  aspect  of  a  handsome  boy.  She 
seemed  robbed  of  that  imperiousness  which 
sometimes  awed  her  lovers.  Never  had  she 
been  more  charming,  with  an  appealing  charm 
of  innocence  and  youthfulness. 

"  Don't  think  ill  of  me,"  she  said,  over- 
powered by  an  embarrassment  unusual  to  her. 
"  I  simply  could  not  live  another  minute 
without  asking  you  to  forgive  mamma.  I 
heard  you  say  you  were  leaving  to-day  for 
250 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Boston,  and  before  you  did  so  I  wanted — I 
had  to " 

She  paused  helpless,  confused. 

He  came  to  the  rescue.  "  It  was  the  im- 
pulse of  a  queen,"  he  said. 

"  Say  you  forgive  her." 

The  forgiveness  of  a  lover  is  not  always 
heroic. 

"  I  doubtless  deserved  my  dismissal,"  he 
said,  "  and  as  I  told  your  mother,  it  was  my 
province  to  ask  pardon." 

She   smiled.     "Poor  mamma!"  she   said. 

They  both  laughed  now  in  each  other's  eyes 
in  sheer  delight  at  being  so  near.  She  had 
drawn  off  her  glove. 

"  What  a  strong,  beautiful  thing  is  your 
hand!  "  he  said. 

Then,  with  ravishing  archness:  "Why  don't 
you  ask  for  it? "  and  she  looked  up  at  him, 
throwing  back  her  head  in  a  proud  reckless- 
ness. 

He  seized  her  wrist.  "Ah!"  he  cried;  "if 
it  were  empty! " 

"  What!  do  you  really  wish  me  to  sell  all  my 
possessions  and  give  the  proceeds  to  the  poor?  " 
251 


Mrs.  Clyde 

said  Pauline.  "  I  am  so  extravagant! "  She 
made  a  moue  at  him  which  robbed  him  of  his 
speech. 

"  Yes,"  she  went  on,  hurriedly,  "  I  have  been 
brought  up,  you  know,  with  great  indulgence, 
but  I  am  not  the  spoiled  creature  you  believe. 
I  detest  the  life  I  am  made  to  live;  I  dislike  the 
people  mamma  cares  for.  They  want  me  to 
marry  Beaumains;  it  is  expected  of  me;  but  how 
can  I  when  I  loathe  him?  " 

"Why  do  you  loathe  him?"  His  fingers 
closed  upon  her  own. 

"  I  loathe  him  because — because Ah! — 

you  know." 

She  was  in  his  arms  now,  his  shy  darling, 
passive  yet  trembling.  For  one  brief  moment 
she  gave  up  to  him  those  sweet,  grave  lips  for 
which  he  had  so  longed. 

Ah,  how  he  had  hungered  for  this  hour! 
The  white  sun  flashed  between  them  all  his 
glory,  holding  them  in  his  glittering  embrace. 
The  swelling  sea  broke  in  sighs  at  their  feet. 
The  honeysuckle  waved  above  them  its  fra- 
grance, brushing  the  man's  cheek  and  the  girl's 
forehead  with  airy  festoons.  And  still  they  sat 
252 


Mrs.  Clyde 

immovable,  lost  in  the  intoxication  of  their  first 
caress. 

He  spoke  at  last.  "  Pauline,"  he  said,  "  tell 
me  you  know  it  is  yourself  I  worship  and  not 
what  others  gave  you — the  curse  of  the  world." 
He  was  undoubtedly  sincere;  he  imagined  that 
he  loved  untrammelled  nature  and  despised  arti- 
fice; that  he  hated  the  prestige  of  fashion  and 
of  belleship  which  made  his  dear  one  valuable 
to  alien  eyes.  Yet  we,  who  are  onlookers  and 
not  lovers,  wonder,  if  this  splendid  flower  had 
been  reared  in  less  luxuriant  soil;  wonder  if  her 
habit  had  been  home-made  and  fitted  ill,  if  her 
shoes  and  stockings  had  been  shabby,  her  hands 
and  nails  less  daintily  cared  for,  her  setting 
coarser,  would  she  still  have  appealed  to  his  crit- 
ical taste?  If  all  these  gyves  of  a  civilization  he 
called  corrupt  had  been  wanting,  would  he  have 
been  so  bound? 

"  They  have  extolled  me  as  a  beauty  and 
an  heiress,  I  believe,"  said  Pauline,  smiling  at 
him,  "  and  ever  since  I  was  quite  little  mamma 
has  dinned  into  my  ears  that  I  ought  to  be 
ambitious,  that  I  owe  it  to  myself  and  to 
her.  Well,  in  choosing  you,  dear,  I  think 
17  253 


Mrs.  Clyde 

I  am,  although  my  friends  may  think  other- 
wise." 

Her  ingenuousness  in  treating  acceptance  of 
him  as  a  recognised  sacrifice,  did  not  offend 
him.  Indeed,  her  artlessness  in  regarding  her 
own  position  as  seriously  exalted  made  her  seem 
more  lovely  in  his  eyes.  He  had  often,  of 
course,  heard  the  Clydes  derided  by  less  success- 
ful aspirants  as  new  and  pushing  upstarts,  and 
before  he  had  known  Pauline  would  have  been 
the  first  to  join  in  the  laughter  at  their  expense. 
Now  he  listened  to  her  guileless  prattle  in  a  rapt 
reverence  bordering  on  awe.  Very  solemnly 
then  he  told  her  of  his  past,  its  disappointments 
and  its  pain. 

"  Ours  is  but  a  dull  house,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
have  little  to  offer  you  except  a  spotless  name, 
my  brain,  my  heart,  my  hands;  they  are  not  idle 
or  cold,  they  will  slave  for  you.  Let  your 
mother  have  patience,  I  will  be  worthy.  My 
father  had  a  brilliant  mind  before  an  accident — 
he  was  thrown  from  his  horse — which  broke 
down  his  health.  My  mother  will  admire  you. 
She  is  not  a  woman  of  the  world,  like  yours  " — 
Pauline  shrugged  away  the  comparison — "  but 
254 


Mrs.  Clyde 

she  is  a  lady  in  every  interpretation  of  the  word. 
And  she  is  clever." 

Then  in  her  turn  she  poured  out  to  him  the 
story  of  her  guileless  girlhood.  After  she  had 
done: 

"  Bianca  Light  blushed  when  she  showed  me 
your  photograph.  Did  you  ever  have — did  you 
ever  care  for  her  the  least  little  bit?  "  she  asked, 
drawing  on  her  glove  with  a  jerk. 

*'  No,  never  cared  the  least  little  bit  for  her 
or  anybody  before."  His  brow  was,  in  fact,  re- 
splendent with  the  halo  of  past  asceticism. 

"  Why  did  she  get  red  then?  " 

"  It  was  a  way  that  she  had,"  he  said. 

"  Do  you  consider  her  pretty?  " 

"Pretty!     Heavens!" 

"  There  are  person  who  do,  but  I  think  her 
extremely  ordinary,"  said  Miss  Clyde. 

"  She  is  lamentably  so." 

"  As  for  me,  I  would  have  too  much  pride 
to  get  red  about  a  man  who  had  never  looked 
at  me." 

Silence. 

"  How  did  she  happen  to  have  your  photo- 
graph, then?  " 

255 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  She  got  it  from  her  brother,  who  was  in 
my  class  at  Harvard." 

"Ah!" 

Pause. 

"  She  must  have  wanted  it  extremely — ter- 
rifically." 

"  It  only  filled  up  a  niche  on  her  mantel- 
shelf; she  had  all  the  class." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  She  mentioned  it  once." 

"When?  Lately?"  asked  the  haughty 
Miss  Clyde. 

And  in  his  rapture  at  her  questionings  and 
the  revelations  of  their  anxiety — "  Oh,  my  be- 
loved!" he  cried,  "how  beautiful  you  are! 
You  make  a  god  of  the  man  you  look  at. 
Trust  me  entirely,  for  soul  and  body  I  am 
yours." 

When  Pauline  met  her  mother  in  the  library, 
upon  her  return,  it  was  not  without  a  slight 
compunction  mingled  with  apprehension.  Tre- 
fusis  had  urged  her  to  immediate  avowal  and 
had  asked  permission  to  call  upon  Mrs.  Clyde  at 
once  for  her  consent  and  blessing.  Pauline  de- 
256 


Mrs.  Clyde 

murred,  and  it  had  been  decided  that  he  should 
go  to  Boston  for  a  few  days,  where  an  impera- 
tive case  awaited  him,  and  not  press  his  suit  fur- 
ther until  some  explanation  had  passed  between 
the  mother  and  the  daughter.  Pauline  was  her 
mother's  own  child  and  no  coward.  Before  she 
could  muster  up  courage  enough,  however,  for 
the  attack,  Mrs.  Clyde  had  spoken: 

"How  late  you  are!  The  others  have  all 
gone  to  Mrs.  Heathcote's  matinee  dansante. 
You  must  get  out  of  your  habit  at  once,  take 
your  bath  and  dress  yourself.  I  shall  be  ready 
at  one.  You  had  better  wear  your  pink  dress; 
they  give  us  luncheon  there.  I  did  not  suppose 
you  would  ride  this  morning.  I  slept  late." 

"  Yes,  mamma,  but " 

"  Before  you  go  up,  however,  Pauline,  I 
have  something  to  tell  you.  Perhaps  you 
guess  it." 

Mrs.  Clyde  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  by  the 
window  in  a  loose  red  wrapper.  Her  hair  was 
slightly  unkempt;  it  was  not  yet  dressed.  She 
had  come  down  to  give  orders  to  her  valetaille. 
She  picked  up  a  silver  paper  cutter  and  rubbed 
it  with  her  handkerchief.  "  How  untidy  James 
257 


Mrs.  Clyde 

is!     These  silver  ornaments  look  like  pewter — 
as  if  they  had  not  been  cleaned  for  weeks." 

"  Tell  me  quickly,  please." 

"  Beaumains  has  requested  to  be  allowed  to 
pay  you  serious  court.  It  is  equivalent  to  ask- 
ing for  you  in  marriage.  I  confess  I  like  his 
methods;  they  are  aboveboard,  nothing  under- 
hand about  them.  He  comes  to  me  direct,  as 
every  man,  every  gentleman,  should." 

"  He  knows  you  are  his  friend,"  said  Pauline 
rather  faintly. 

"  He  knows  nothing  of  the  kind.  You 
don't  suppose  I  am  going  to  let  him  think  you 
can  be  whistled  for;  that  he  can  open  his  mouth 
for  you  to  drop  into.  I  hope  you  know  your 
worth.  If  he  wants  you  he  must  win  you,  and 
this  I  told  him." 

"  You  are  mistaken  then,"  said  Pauline  husk- 
ily, "  for  he  can  not." 

"  What  am  I  to  understand  by  that?  " 

"  I  am  already — won." 

"  Repeat  what  you  said.  I  can  not  have 
heard."  Her  mother's  face  blanched. 

"  I  mean  that  I  love  another  man  and  I  in- 
tend to  marry  him." 

258 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  Without  my  consent?  "  Mrs.  Clyde's  face 
was  white  with  anger.  Pauline  remained  silent. 

"Speak!" 

"  With  your  consent,  I  hope,  mamma,"  she 
said  simply,  "  since  I  am  sure  you  want  my  hap- 
piness." 

"  Happiness!  Who  is  talking  about  happi- 
ness? What  do  you  know  of  what  is  best  for 
you?  Who  is,  pray,  this  conquering  hero,  this 
troubadour  who  has  been  singing  silly  madrigals 
into  your  ears?  Not  that  sneak,  I  hope,  who 
was  hiding  in  the  conservatory  last  night!  " 

Mrs.  Clyde  had  risen  and  the  two  women 
stood  confronting  each  other.  A  crimson  flush 
overspread  Pauline's  brow,  cheeks  and  throat. 
As  her  mother  saw  it,  even  in  her  wrath  she 
thought,  "  What  a  spirit  she  has,  and  how  hand- 
some! "  and  she  admired  her. 

"  He  was  not  hiding.  He  is  not  a  sneak  and 
you  know  it." 

"  And  you  dare  to  tell  me  that  you  desire 
to  make  that  putty-faced  beggar  my  son-in- 
law!  "  Rage  choked  Gabriella  now;  all  pru- 
dence was  cast  to  the  winds. 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  by  '  that  putty-faced 
259 


Mrs.  Clyde 

beggar  '?  Do  you  mean  the  Englishman,  Beau- 
mains,  whom  I  loathe  and  detest,  whose  very 
presence  makes  my  flesh  creep?  "  It  must  be 
conceded  that  Beaumains's  repellent  attributes 
had  suddenly  grown  illimitable. 

"  Nonsense!  You  have  been  pleased  enough 
to  drag  him  about  and  make  a  fool  of  him  and 
of  yourself.  But  I  will  have  no  nonsense.  Do 
you  hear  me?  I  shall  not  have  you,  after  all 
these  years  of  abnegation  on  my  part,  make 
havoc  of  all  my  dearest  hopes  and  aims." 

Mrs.  Clyde  felt  upon  her  shoulders  at  that 
moment  the  weight  of  the  vicarious  sufferings 
of  the  universe.  "  If  you  prefer  to  wallow  with 
the  swine  it  is  a  mother's  duty  to  save  you  be- 
fore you  are  irrevocably  soiled.  I  shall  do  so. 
You  will  marry  Beaumains,  and  dismiss  your 
skulking  adorer." 

"  How  dare  you?  " 

"  How  dare  I !  Pretty  words  from  a  child 
to  its  parent!  What  is  he  else?  Trying  to  se- 
duce you  like  the  thief  he  is,  to  get  at  your 
money!  " 

Pauline's  hands  dropped  at  her  side.  She 
had  grown  livid.  "  It  was  because  of  my  money 
260 


Mrs.  Clyde 

he  would  not  speak.  It  is  my  money  that  has 
kept  him  silent  all  these  months,  and  it  is  for 
this  that  you  insult  him?  "  she  murmured,  with 
all  the  weariness  of  a  great  despair  in  her  low 
tones. 

"  Has  he  not  offered  himself  to  you,  then?  " 
asked  her  mother  in  a  mocking  voice. 

"  No,"  said  the  girl,  raising  her  head  defiant- 
ly; "I  offered  myself  to  him." 

"  And  your  father's  daughter  can  stand  there 
and  make  such  an  acknowledgment  to  me  with- 
out dying  of  shame!  " 

"  My  father  would  uphold  me;  he  believed 
in  love." 

"  Love!  And  he  has  talked  love  to  you,  has 
he,  and  you,  like  the  baby-faced  thing  that  you 
are,  have  swallowed  every  blessed  word?  The 
man  is  a  pauper,  entirely  unknown  and  obscure, 
a  pettifogging  country  lawyer  who  has  gulled 
you  at  his  pleasure." 

"  Mamma,"  said  the  girl,  "  take  care!  I  am 
hot-tempered — don't  drive  me  too  far." 

"  You  are  a  selfish,  insolent  girl,  that  is  what 
you  are.  What  have  I  lived  for  but  for  you? 
What  was  my  marriage  for,  but  for  my  family, 
261 


Mrs.  Clyde 

for  my  unborn  children?  Your  father  was  old 
enough  to  be  mine.  Oh,  I  too  had  my  trouba- 
dours .  .  .  but  I  turned  away  and  sacrificed 
myself." 

"  How  can  you  speak  so  of  my  father,  my 
dear,  dear  father?  "  said  Pauline,  bursting  into 
tears. 

"  Oh,  cry  now;  cry,  do!  "  Mrs.  Clyde  almost 
shrieked,  possessing  herself  no  more.  "  Make 
a  scene  and  have  the  servants  about  our  ears. 
You  have  made  me  sick  with  your  mawkish  sen- 
timentality. I  will  not  go  to  the  Heathcotes', 
nor  will  you.  Go  to  your  room.  There  I  shall 
join  you,  and  you  will  write  at  my  dictation  a 
letter  to  your  village  bumpkin — miserable  cur!  " 

Pauline  advanced  upon  her  mother  with 
something  in  her  face  which  checked  further 
word  and  struck  a  chill  to  Mrs.  Clyde's  heart. 
She  had  raised  her  arms,  then  once  again 
dropped  them  to  her  side.  Her  lips  were  pale; 
two  scarlet  stains  burned  on  her  cheeks,  on 
which  the  tears  had  suddenly  dried.  Some- 
times, before,  Mrs.  Clyde,  even  in  earlier  years, 
had  surprised  in  her  daughter's  quiet  eyes  a  deep 
and  curious  scrutiny,  which  seemed  to  sift  her 
262 


Mrs.  Clyde 

shallow  motives,  her  poor  ambitions,  and  pierce 
and  shrivel  them.  To-day  there  was  something 
of  this  that  she  saw,  and  something  more  which 
made  her  shrink  a  little,  like  a  person  sobered 
from  drunkenness  by  unexpected  shock.  Her 
fury  fell. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so?  "  she  asked, 
uneasily. 

"  Mother,"  said  Pauline,  "  I  hate  you." 
Pauline  had  one  of  those  violent  natures — 
never  irritable — which,  when  roused,  murder. 
As  she  went  up  to  her  room  she  kept  repeating: 
"  I  hate  my  mother!  I  hate  my  mother!  "  and 
she  felt  the  joy  of  emancipation.  As  with  the 
blasphemer  who  invoked  God  to  do  his  worst 
upon  him,  giving  Him  half  an  hour,  the  exalta- 
tion of  a  new  freedom  beat  in  her  veins. 


263 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

As  Pauline  was  not  one  of  Balzac's  cerebral 
heroines,  or  one  of  George  Sand's  sanguine 
ones,  or  even  redoubtable  and  singular  like  the 
problematic  creatures  of  Feuillet's  moonlit 
novels,  but  a  healthy  American  girl  with  a  New 
England  conscience,  she  did  not  long  remain  in 
the  vengeful  condition  in  which  we  left  her. 
She  slept  little  that  night.  She  became  a  prey 
to  remorse.  Her  mother  had  gone  out  with- 
out her;  later,  returning,  had  pleaded  a  head- 
ache and  closed  her  doors  except  to  her  maid. 
Pauline  wandered  aimlessly  about  the  house, 
gradually  growing  more  and  more  disconsolate. 
At  dinner,  Mrs.  Train — who  had  now  removed 
herself  and  her  belongings  to  a  cliff  cottage  but 
still  lived  much  at  Narcissa  Villa — did  the  hon- 
ours to  a  few  guests.  Pauline  was  silent  and 
distraite,  but  Mrs.  Ovid  was  equal  to  any  emer- 
gency and  Beaumains  was  in  high  good  humour. 
264 


Mrs.  Clyde 

It  is  all  very  well  to  hate  your  mother  and 
tell  her  so,  but  the  lambkin  who  has  never  been 
weaned  still  has  a  yearning  after  his  mammy, 
and  goes  bleating  about  when  he  finds  her  not. 
Although  resentment  still  surged  hot  within  the 
girl  when  she  recalled  her  mother's  outbursts 
against  Launcelot,  and  their  injustice,  she  never- 
theless felt  inclined  to  make  allowance.  Too 
much  alike  not  to  comprehend  each  other,  too 
dissimilar  to  agree,  inseparable  quand  meme, 
with  all  the  ties  of  mutual  support  to  bind  them 
to  each  other — the  girl  asked  herself,  terrified, 
what  the  results  would  be  of  an  irrevocable  quar- 
rel. Now — as  we  are  prone  to  do  when  we  have 
been  too  harsh — she  dwelt  upon  her  mother's 
virtues;  her  indomitable  energy,  her  forceful 
will,  her  absence  of  foolish  personal  vanity,  her 
lack  of  snobbishness  which  made  her  often  give 
a  helping  hand  to  those  whom  others  jostled, 
her  frugality — Mrs.  Clyde  ate  little  and  never 
touched  wine — her  occasional  impulses  of  gen- 
erosity, her  dignity  in  her  relations  with  the 
gentlemen,  her  devotion  to  herself — Pauline. 
It  might  seem  strange  that  such  an  inventory 
should  have  been  made  by  a  daughter  of 
265 


Mrs.  Clyde 

a  mother.  But  she  had  friends  whose  mothers, 
nearly  as  old  as  hers,  were  not  distinguished  for 
these  qualities.  "  She  might  have  married 
again.  Bianca  Light's  mother  did,"  she 
thought.  "  And  how  should  I  have  felt?  And 
Bella  Payne's  mother  flirts  dreadfully."  Then 
Pauline,  being  clever,  did  not  belittle  her  moth- 
er's social  astuteness.  "  She  is  one  of  the  most 
wonderful  of  women.  Everybody  says  so.  I 
must  not  be  too  stupid  to  see  that.  Who  has 
such  executive  abilities?  Who  holds  such  a 
salon  as  ours  to-day?  And  it  is  not  money. 
Others  have  money  and  don't  know  how 
to  use  it.  It  is  —  just  mamma.  Oh,  I 
have  been  horrible  to  her!  Poor  mamma!" 
And  Pauline  knelt  and  prayed  to  be  ab- 
solved. 

It  was  only  when  she  thought  of  Trefusis 
that  she  grew  glacial.  There  her  mother's  at- 
tack had  failed;  her  fatal  temper  had  sealed  the 
verdict.  In  her  allegiance  to  him  Pauline  never 
faltered.  She  would  be  his  though  the  earth 
opened  to  swallow  them  both.  Her  tremulous 
girl's  love  had  grown  in  one  brief  night  to 
woman's  passion,  and  she  knew  that  the  only 
266 


Mrs.  Clyde 

worthy  acts  of  life  are  inspired  by  love  and  faith, 
not  by  reason. 

At  eleven  o'clock  she  tapped  at  her  mother's 
door.  Mrs.  Clyde  was  sitting,  as  was  usual  at 
this  hour,  at  her  desk.  It  was  a  gigantic  edifice 
constructed  purposely  for  holding,  in  innumer- 
able pigeon-holes  and  drawers,  the  various 
papers,  notes  and  letters  of  a  lady  who  was  at 
once  a  social  queen  and  a  business  woman.  She 
wore  the  same  red  gown  of  the  day  before,  hast- 
ily caught  about  her  hips  with -its  silken  girdle. 
Her  long  hair  lay  upon  her  shoulders,  her  stock- 
ingless  feet  were  thrust  into  a  pair  of  dilapidated 
slippers.  The  day  held  a  presage  of  autumn, 
and  the  harsh  light  from  a  western  window  beat 
through  the  rich  hangings  and  fell  upon  Mrs. 
Clyde's  head  as  she  sat  immersed  in  her  affairs. 
Pauline's  heart  contracted  with  pity.  Her 
mother's  cheeks  looked  haggard  and  wan.  Her 
hanging  hair,  whose  graying  at  the  temples  a 
well-trained  maid  managed  skilfully  to  conceal, 
gave  her  aspect  an  unusual  look  of  age.  Her 
tired  eyes,  encircled  by  dark  rings,  were  fastened 
on  the  pages  of  a  voluminous  letter  which  flut- 
tered in  her  hand.  She  turned  sharply. 
267 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  Shut  that  door,"  she  said;  "  I  am  half 
frozen.  I  have  been  up  since  six  o'clock. 
They  have  served  these  law-papers  upon  me — 
upon  us.  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  understand  a  word 
about  them.  I  will  turn  the  tables  and  have  the 
law  on  that  trustee  if  it  takes  my  last  dollar  and 
yours  too.  If  they  think  to  cheat  a  widow  out 
of  her  mite,  I  will  appeal  to  the  protection  of  the 
government.  The  President  is  a  friend  of  mine. 
These  devils  think  they  can  circumvent  me,  do 
they?  Well,  let  them  come  on.  I  have  got 
more  business  talent  in  my  little  ringer  than  all 
my  agents  and  lawyers  have  in  their  big  stupid 
hulks." 

Pauline  had  not  lived  eighteen  years  close  to 
her  mother  without  experience  of  these  swift  re- 
vulsions and  reactions,  but  to  find  a  person  at 
whose  knees  you  come  to  crave  acquittal  from 
offence  entirely  oblivious  of  your  crime  and 
steeped  in  other  matters,  is,  at  least,  baffling. 
She  murmured  that  she  was  very  sorry  her 
mother  had  so  much  worry,  and,  trembling, 
brushed  the  lady's  forehead  with  her  lips.  Mrs. 
Clyde  accepted  the  caress  without  effusion,  but 
did  not  repel  it.  Evidently  the  terrible  words 
268 


Mrs.  Clyde 

which  had  plunged  the  girl  in  misery,  if  they 
had  weighed  and  rankled  yesterday,  this  morn- 
ing were  forgotten;  other  things  had  displanted 
them.  The  love  affairs  of  little  girls  and  their 
tantrums  were  of  small  moment  compared  with 
threatened  loss  of  fortune  and  the  pressing  cares 
of  financial  administration.  Pauline  stood 
mute.  Trefusis,  his  claims  and  hers,  Beau- 
mains's  pretensions,  dwindled  and  grew  indis- 
tinct. In  the  atmosphere  of  practical  concern 
which  pervaded  the  apartment,  she  felt  her  joys 
and  woes  to  be  out  of  place,  insignificant  and 
puerile.  Pity  wavered  for  a  moment  into  scorn, 
then  settled  into  a  blank  astonishment  at  her 
mother's  peculiar  power.  The  profound  north- 
ern nature  which  suffers  years  its  stifling  sor- 
row silently,  looks  with  contempt  and  marvel  at 
the  Neapolitan  who  when  his  friend  dies  threat- 
ens to  kill  himself,  and  does  not  do  so  only  be- 
cause he  is  watched,  then  the  third  day  goes  to 
the  play  to  find  distraction.  Nevertheless  it 
envies  him.  Certainly  no  one  that  night  on 
seeing  Mrs.  Clyde  coifed,  dressed  and  smiling, 
receiving  a  German  prince  at  dinner  and  later 
holding  a  reception  in  his  honour  with  her  fair 
18  269 


Mrs.  Clyde 

daughter  at  her  side,  would  have  dreamed  that 
she  had  a  crumpled  rose-leaf  to  lie  upon. 

"  Elle  a  tout  de  meme  le  chic  pour  recevoir" 
sighed  the  French  maid,  peering  between  the 
balusters  as,  at  the  entrance  to  the  larger  draw- 
ing-room, she  could  catch  sight  of  her  mis- 
tress's majestic  figure  with  the  gleam  of  gems 
which  sparkled  on  her  neck  and  hair.  The  day 
had  been  a  hard  one  to  Martine.  She  had  met 
ill  humour,  rebuffs  and  fault-findings,  but  from 
the  moment  that  Mrs.  Clyde  stepped  through 
her  hall  with  nerves  steeled,  furrows  smoothed, 
cares  relaxed,  anxieties  in  leash,  Narcissa  Villa 
was  at  peace. 

All  the  world  was  there  that  night,  a  small 
world,  perhaps,  a  narrow  court,  but  still  cosmo- 
politan enough,  and  at  which  reigned  grace, 
beauty,  wealth  and  all  those  things  which  people 
emulate  while  still  decrying. 

Mr.  Remington,  visiting  a  yacht  at  anchor 
in  the  harbour  that  afternoon,  tasted  his  tri- 
umph too.  Its  owner,  a  gentleman  from  Bos- 
ton, entertained  on  his  goodly  ship  a  party  of 
Nahanters,  and  among  them  none  other  than 
that  Mrs.  Prentiss  who,  years  before,  had 
270 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ignored  Gabriella  and  treated  her  with  rude  con- 
tumely. An  old  woman  now,  passee,  long  left 
behind,  but  still,  by  reason  of  traditional  sover- 
eignty, a  power  in  Boston. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  see  you  to-night  at  Mrs. 
Philetus  Clyde's?  "  he  asked  of  her. 

Then,  flushing,  Mrs.  Prentiss  admitted  that 
she  had  not  been  bidden,  had  no  card.  "  Odd, 
too,  that  she  should  leave  me  out.  It  must  be  a 
mistake.  I  used  to  know  her.  She  was  at  a 
ball  once  at  my  house,  years  ago." 

"  Oh,  do  get  us  asked,  Mr.  Remington, 
that's  a  dear,"  cried  a  young  woman;  "  we  are 
just  dying  to  go  on  shore  to-night.  We  hear 
her  parties  are  so  delightful,  quite  the  best 
things  there  are." 

"  Mrs.  Clyde  told  me,"  said  Mr.  Remington, 
ruminating  as  if  in  doubt,  "  that  her  lists  were 
full;  but,"  he  added,  as  if  taking  heart  of  grace, 
"  she  is  always  glad  to  show  hospitality.  I 
think  " — he  turned  to  Mrs.  Prentiss — "  I  think 
that  I  can  manage  to  get  your  party  invited." 

"  It  will  be  most  kind  of  you,"  murmured 
Mrs.  Prentiss,  meekly.  And  Gabriella  was 
avenged ! 

271 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Like  Queen  Charlotte's  maid  of  honour, 
Mrs.  Prentiss  may  have  felt  that  it  was  hard  to 
give  up  bags,  swords  and  good  breeding  for 
the  usurpations  of  vulgarity,  Roundheads  and 
dishabilles;  but  she  had  to  acknowledge  her  de- 
feat. 

That  night  Beaumains  declared  his  senti- 
ments in  the  same  place  where  Trefusis  had 
whispered  his.  He  was  dismissed  with  courtesy 
but  succinctly. 

"  Really  now,  you  know,  is  there  no  hope 
for  me  at  all,  Miss  Clyde?  " 

"  None  at  all,"  said  Pauline,  shaking  her 
head. 

"  Now,  is  not  that  rather  rough  on  a  fellow? 
Your  mamma  gave  me  to  understand,  you 
know,  that  she  consented  if  you  would,  and  my 
own  parents " 

"  It  is  quite  useless  for  you  to  say  any 
more,"  said  Pauline,  "  and  I  don't  believe  you 
can  think  I  ever  encouraged  you." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Beaumains,  who 

felt  aggrieved  and  testy;    "  I   think  you  have 

kept  me  dangling  about  a  good  while,  don't  you 

know?     I  intended  to  go  to  the  prairies  and 

272 


Mrs.  Clyde 

that,  and  I  have  wasted  all  my  summer  in  this 
deuced  hole — I  beg  your  pardon!  " 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Pauline,  haughtily. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  did  not  mean  your 
house,  of  course.  Your  mother  and  Mrs.  Train 
have  been  awfully  kind  to  me,  but  I  hate  this 
sort  of  thing,  you  know — dressing  and  lunching 
and  going  about;  I  am  not  accustomed  to  it, 
it  knocks  me  all  up.  And  if  I  had  been  ac- 
cepted  " 

"  You  see,"  said  Pauline,  who  was  grow- 
ing angry  at  his  persistence,  "  I  love  another 
man;"  and  she  leaned  back  on  the  divan 
with  a  malicious  enjoyment  of  his  amaze- 
ment. 

"  I  think  if  Mrs.  Clyde  had  told  me  this  be- , 
fore,"  he  said  stiffly,  after  a  pause,  "  it  would 
have  been  just  as  well.  Much  better.  There 
wasn't  any  object,  don't  you  know,  in  mak- 
ing an  ass  of  me.  But  if  it  has  afforded 
you  a  moment's  amusement,  Miss  Clyde,  and 
to  your  friends,  I  suppose  I  must  rest  con- 
tent." 

He  spoke  with  bitterness  but  with  a  cer- 
tain  dignity.     She   had   never  liked   him   half 
2/3 


Mrs.  Clyde 

so  well  as  at  this  moment.  She  regretted 
to  have  pained  him,  and  she  told  him  so, 
with  gentle  womanliness,  holding  her  hand 
out  to  him  in  contrition.  He  took  it  and 
held  it  for  a  moment  in  both  his  own  with 
reverence. 

"  You  are  a  beautiful  girl,"  he  said,  "  and 
I  wasn't  worthy  of  you.  I  have  been  an  only 
son  with  a  lot  of  sisters  and  I  have  been  rather 
rackety  and  spoiled,  you  know.  It  is  in  our 
blood,  I  am  afraid;  but  there  are  a  great  many 
girls  who  would  not  be  as  frank  and  fair  as  you 
have  been,  and  I  am  sorry  I  was  cross  just  now. 
Forgive  me,  won't  you?  And  if  ever  you  come 
to  England  let  me  know;  I'd  like  to  see  you 
again  when  I  get  over  this.  I  shall  be  sailing, 
I  am  thinking,  directly." 

His  vanity  was  more  wounded  than  his 
heart;  but,  at  any  rate,  he  behaved  like  a  gen- 
tleman. He  knew,  what  he  did  not  say,  that 
there  were  those  who,  without  love  or  sem- 
blance of  it,  would  gladly  take  what  he  could 
offer — title  and  rank  and  moated  castles,  which 
appeal  to  women  with  their  romance  and  their 
traditions,  fed  as  they  are  on  fairy  tales  and  fic- 
274 


Mrs.  Clyde 

tion.  The  fact  that  Pauline's  hand  went  with 
her  affections  filled  him  with  unexpressed  re- 
spect. A  few  months  later,  however,  before  he 
left  the  "  States,"  he  had  found  consolation:  he 
was  engaged  to  Mrs.  Ovid  Train. 


275 


CHAPTER    XIX 

THERE  came  at  this  time  to  the  great  North 
American  watering-place,  inspired  by  the  curi- 
osity of  exhausted  resource,  an  Austrian  prince, 
a  robust  blond  Apollo,  unavoidably  armed  with 
documents  introductory  to  Mrs.  Clyde,  and  as 
infallibly  predestined  to  become  a  suitor  for  her 
daughter.  Prinz  Clodvig  von  Auersperg-Don- 
nersmark  had  left  his  widowed  mother  in  the 
cool  and  fragrant  depths  of  her  Cisleithan  castle. 
She  had  obliged  him  to  sign  a  paper  to  the 
effect  that  he  would  not  bring  home  an  Ameri- 
can wife.  She  was  a  Bavarian  princess  and  a 
Roman  Catholic.  It  was  probably  this  enforced 
pledge  which  decided  Clodvig,  the  very  first 
time  he  saw  Pauline,  some  day  to  ask  for  her 
hand.  He  determined  not  only  to  marry  the 
girl,  but  to  impose  her  upon  his  relatives  and 
make  her  the  fashion  in  his  own  country.  Of 
this  last  exploit  he  was  eminently  capable.  He 
276 


Mrs.  Clyde 

was  one  of  those  men  whose  attentions  make 
women  important,  whose  neglect  dwarfs  them. 
He  had  also  the  faculty  of  making  other  men 
appear  insignificant.  Would  he  belittle  Trefu- 
sis?  With  Pauline  such  an  ordeal  could  be 
safely  met.  She  would  have  loved  him  all  the 
more.  She  was  generous.  The  attribute  of 
domination,  often  born  of  audacity,  of  vanity,  of 
unscrupulousness,  is  doubtless  of  service  to  a 
man.  Useful  when  turned  into  wide  channels, 
it  is  more  generally  thrown  away  on  trifles  and 
becomes  as  futile  as  the  talent  some  persons 
who  could  not  earn  a  dollar  possess  for  repeat- 
ing the  multiplication  table  backward,  the 
names  of  presidents  or  the  number  of  stars  in 
each  constellation. 

The  prince  had  a  genius  for  imposing  his 
women  not  only  upon  men,  but  upon  other 
women,  and  he  could  make  the  lady  whom  he 
distinguished,  eminent.  He  had  numerous  per- 
sonal gifts  and  graces  to  bring  to  this  feat.  He 
was  accomplished,  elegant,  agreeable,  and  al- 
though his  material  prosperity  lay  principally 
in  lands  and  titles,  he  was  not  absolutely  with- 
out income. 

277 


Mrs.  Clyde 

During  a  momentary  coldness  between  the 
lovers,  born  of  their  difficulties  and  embarrass- 
ments, Trefusis — who  was  prone  to  look  upon 
Pauline's  occasional  boutades  as  assured  marks 
of  a  wavering  allegiance — had  proudly  with- 
drawn to  nurse  his  wrongs  and  curse  the  femi- 
nine sex.  Pauline,  thus  forsaken,  met  the 
prince.  However  deep  or  shallow  may  have 
been  his  schemes,  however  serious  or  flippant 
his  designs,  it  is  certain  that  the  young  man 
brought  every  art  of  his  intelligence  to  the  ar- 
dent court  he  paid  the  beautiful  girl.  Pauline, 
fevered  by  the  apparent  indifference — which  was 
in  fact  an  agonizing  effort — of  her  lover,  threw 
herself,  in  the  frenzy  of  her  pique,  into  a  flirta- 
tion with  the  foreigner.  It  is  safe  to  say  that 
her  healthy  American  heart  remained  stanch 
to  her  love,  and  that  she  escaped  unscathed 
from  the  ordeal  of  a  very  positive  allurement. 

The  plain  woman  who  boasts  of  her  absolute 
fidelity  to  the  man  who  has  chosen  her — she 
rarely  chooses  for  herself — has,  in  her  stupen- 
dous gratitude,  little  idea  of  the  temptations  to 
which  a  handsome  woman  is  subjected.  Petted, 
pampered,  worshipped,  with  a  hundred  men 
278 


Mrs.  Clyde 

always  at  her  heels  ready  for,  nay,  insisting  on 
burning  incense  before  her,  she  must  possess  in- 
deed a  powerful  attachment,  as  well  as  a  steady 
brain,  to  resist  the  intoxication  of  incessant 
adoration.  It  is  presumable  that  the  woman 
who  has  the  leisure  to  shut  herself  up  with  her 
one  affection,  turn  it  over  and  congratulate  her- 
self upon  its  singleness,  will  look  askance  at  her 
fairer  sister,  who  seems  now  and  again  to  listen 
somewhat  too  complacently  to  the  voice  of  out- 
side charmers.  The  critic  should  always  com- 
prehend, never  deplore.  No  love  is  secure 
until  all  seductions  have  been  employed  to 
weaken  it.  Resisting  these,  it  has  proved  itself. 
It  is  probable  that  Trefusis  could  make  use 
of  no  such  philosophy.  He  looked  on  askance, 
profoundly  wounded,  horribly  jealous.  This 
time  he  feared  his  rival.  Another  witness  was 
in  rapture — Pauline's  mother.  Too  much  oc- 
cupied with  the  entanglements  of  her  own  af- 
fairs to  bring  any  absorbing  study  to  her  daugh- 
ter's present  performance,  not  perhaps  gifted  to 
a  great  degree  with  that  fine  observation  which 
is  one  of  the  highest  functions  of  human  intel- 
lect, Mrs.  Clyde  was  deceived.  She  laughed 
279 


Mrs.  Clyde 

behind  her  fan  to  some  ladies  of  her  acquaint- 
ance, about  the  discomfiture  of  those  insignifi- 
cant, yet  despicable  intriguers  who  thought  to 
turn  her  girl  aside  from  the  paths  laid  out  for 
her  by  Providence.  She  concluded  that,  after 
all,  Pauline  was  wise. 

Trefusis,  as  I  have  said,  watched  her  from 
afar,  sombre,  resentful,  enigmatic.  Then  he 
suddenly  disappeared.  But  it  was  a  heart- 
breaking game  the  poor  girl  was  playing  and 
was  to  bring  its  swift  reaction. 

Her  lover  left  a  word.  It  was  full  of  re- 
proach, full  of  the  madness  of  youth's  despair; 
above  all,  touching  in  its  simple  arraignment  of 
her  cruelty,  and  it  ended  with  one  of  those  ap- 
peals whose  sincerity  women  can  not  doubt,  and 
to  which  they  succumb.  It  sent  Pauline  rush- 
ing one  afternoon  into  Boston  alone,  unher- 
alded, leaving  an  incoherent  note  on  her  moth- 
er's desk — this  lady  had  gone  to  a  fete  in  Provi- 
dence. Launcelot's  pain  had  produced  a  crisis. 

She  brought  up  rather  unromantically  in  a 
hired  cab  at  Mrs.  Train's  town  mansion. 

Mrs.  Train,  who  was  en  znlle  for  two  days 
on  her  way  to  the  mountains,  found  her  in  the 
280 


Mrs.  Clyde 

twilight  of  her  drawing-room,  amid  shrouded 
furniture,  under  the  sheeted  portrait  of  the  late 
Ovid,  pacing  the  floor,  wringing  her  hands. 
Pauline  told  her  friend  Coy  that  she  had  sum- 
moned Trefusis  by  telegram  sent  to  his  office, 
that  he  would  even  now  be  arriving — would  she, 
would  she,  would  dear,  dear  Coy  lend  them  her 
hospitality  for  an  hour?  Just  one  little  hour? 

Coy,  whose  gratitude  toward  Mrs.  Clyde,  if 
warm,  was  human,  and  whose  own  arrange- 
ments were  just  now  eminently  satisfactory,  was 
found  to  be  good-natured. 

Pauline  held  her  lover's  letter  in  her  hand. 
"  You  know,"  it  said,  "  all  my  aspirations  and 
deepest  shame.  I  have  no  chance  with  these 
idlers  who  surround  you.  I  see  another  pre- 
ferred to  myself.  If  you  forsake  me  I  can  not 
promise  to  live  on.  Do  you  despise  me  because 
I  have  to  work?  I  have  to  do  it  for  others.  I 
am  haunted  like  a  plague-stricken  creature  with 
the  thought  that  you  are  tired  of  me — that  I  dis- 
please you.  I  know  myself  unworthy  of  such 
a  brilliant  beauty  as  you  are.  I  have  nothing 
to  give  you  but  my  adoration.  I  had  dreamed 
that  we  should  walk  up  some  cathedral  aisle, 
281 


Mrs.  Clyde 

your  hand  upon  my  arm.  Now  the  dream  is 
dead!  .  .  ." 

He  was  very  young. 

Mrs.  Train  was  allowed  to  look  at  the  letter. 
She  declared  it  evident  that  the  gentleman  in- 
tended to  shoot  himself.  The  two  women 
paled  and  trembled,  and  were  deliciously 
wretched. 

"  He  is  frightfully  jealous  of  the  prince," 
said  Coy. 

"  Why  doesn't  he  say  it  then?  "  said  Paul- 
ine, with  a  toss. 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  men  do  so  hate  to  ac- 
knowledge it,"  said  her  more  experienced 
friend. 

Even  while  they  talked  Trefusis  was  on  the 
threshold.  The  pain  of  separation  had  become 
to  him  such  atrocious  suffering  that  he  had  hur- 
ried instantly  to  her  call.  Everything  was 
thrown  to  the  winds.  Swiftly  and  discreetly 
Coy  vanished  through  a  neighbouring  doorway. 
They  were  face  to  face  at  last.  Outside,  an  Ital- 
ian organ-grinder  wrung  out  Aida. 

"  T'avea  tl  cielo  fer  famor  creata 
Ed  to  fuccido  per  avertt  amata" 

282 


Mrs.  Clyde 

And  by  and  bye  a  brown  girl  he  had  with 
him  slipped  into  Tosti's  Venetian  love-song, 
dancing  on  the  sidewalk  as  she  sang — 

"  Allor  che  il  guardo  languido 
Su  me  posou  riistante 
lo  ne  divenni  amante 
Ohe  mamma  !    Ohe  mamma  !  " 

Crushed  to  his  heart — on  his  lips  which 
sought  her  proud  and  yielding  ones  with  all  the 
fever  of  his  tortured,  jealous  and  commanding 
love — she  recognised  her  lord. 

"  She  had  fled  to  the  forest  to  hear  a  love  tale : 
And  the  youth  it  was  told  by  was  Alan  Adale." 

Ah!  What  matter  if  the  forest  was  Mrs. 
Train's  "  front  parlour,"  as  the  housemaid  who 
peered  in  curiously  at  them  would  have  called 
it?  What  mattered  the  sepulchral  linen  upon 
the  sofas  and  chairs  and  the  swathed  eyes  of  the 
departed  Ovid? 

"  They  are  beautiful  like  two  angels,  like 
two  angels,"  said  Delia  to  herself.  She  had 
found  them  sitting  hand  in  hand,  their  eyes 
drinking  of  each  other's  light;  breathless  in 
their  content,  exalted  like  the  seraphim  who 
look  upon  the  eternal.  "  They  are  beautiful  as 
283 


Mrs.  Clyde 

angels."  Yea,  to  them  had  been  for  a  brief 
space  revealed  the  apocalyptic  vision  which 
maketh  man  immortal.  They  stood  on  either 
side  of  an  abyss  which  swallowed  all  except 
themselves. 

"  Inertt  i  remi gtacquero 
Nelfondo  del  battello, 
II  sogno  era  si  hello  ! 
Ohe  mamma  !    Ohe  mamma  !  " 

Upon  Pauline's  insistence  they  were  married 
that  evening.  "  Mamma  would  never  consent. 
It  would  be  useless  to  go  back,"  she  said;  "  but 
if  we  run  away  she  may  forgive  us  afterward." 

So,  before  two  witnesses,  one  of  whom  was 
Mrs.  Train,  the  knot  was  tied.  Coy  was  carried 
away  by  the  girl's  wilfulness,  swept  on  the  tide 
of  that  sentimentality  which  lurked  in  her  odd 
dual  character.  She  it  was  who  undertook  to 
reconcile  the  offended  mother  and  write  the 
news.  The  breach  between  herself  and  Mrs. 
Clyde  was  not  soon  healed.  When,  a  few 
months  later,  her  own  marriage  to  Beaumains 
took  place,  it  was  not  to  be  denied  that  Mrs. 
Clyde  had  some  excuse  for  believing  her  prote- 
gee guilty  of  treachery.  Coy's  perfect  amiabil- 
284 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ity  and  forbearance,  however — during  an  inter- 
view which  became  historic,  and  in  which  the 
injured  lady  expressed  her  opinion  in  prose  so 
muscular  that  an  ear-witness  is  said  to  have 
fainted — bore  later  fruits  of  peace.  As  we  have 
many  times  remarked,  Mrs.  Clyde's  memory  was 
not  vindictive.  She  had  the  sagacity  of  condo- 
nation. 

In  these  first  days,  however,  of  a  very  natural 
wrathfulness,  there  was  one  visit  whose  exquisite 
experiment  she  would  not  deny  herself,  and  for 
which  her  maid  prepared  her  in  gloomy  and  por- 
tentous silence.  Passing  a  powdery  patte  de 
lievre  over  her  cheeks,  some  red  salve  on  her 
lips,  she  donned  her  heaviest  satin  gown,  her 
finest  beplumed  bonnet,  and  armed  herself  with 
a  parasol  whose  dimensions  and  vivid  colour 
seemed  to  the  half-frightened  attendant  ominous 
of  threat,  if  not  of  conflict.  Thus  accoutred, 
waving  this  oriflamme,  she  loftily  descended  to 
her  largest  and  most  imposing  barouche.  She 
threw  to  her  footman  the  names  of  certain  streets 
at  whose  apex  the  house  she  sought  was  to  be 
expected.  The  footman  whispered  them  to  the 
coachman  with  malicious  smiling.  The  carriage 
19  285 


Mrs.  Clyde 

swayed  through  the  narrow  town,  attracting 
with  its  occupant  the  usual  meed  of  mild  remark. 
Having  passed  a  shop  which  advertised  "  sea 
food,"  a  news-stand,  a  fruiterer's,  a  church,  it 
drew  up  abruptly  at  a  gate  which  opened  on  a 
half  acre  of  grassy  lawn.  There  three  or  four 
large  trees  shaded  an  old  colonial  dwelling. 

Producing  her  card,  Mrs.  Clyde  bade  her 
man  ask  if  Mrs.  Trefusis  was  at  home.  Five 
minutes  later  she  was  admitted  to  the  drawing- 
room.  The  hall  door  had  been  opened  to  her 
by  a  slightly  disordered  person  in  a  pink  cotton 
frock  and  soiled  apron,  who  emerged  from  some 
lower  region.  While  opening  a  shutter  and 
showing  Mrs.  Clyde  a  seat,  she  ramblingly  ex- 
plained that  the  waitress  was  occupied  in  giving 
Mr.  Trefusis  his  supper,  and  that  she  was  not 
"  used  "  to  admitting  visitors.  This  apologetic 
demeanour  seemed  only  to  stiffen  the  cords  of 
Mrs.  Clyde's  neck  and  shoulders  and  to  give  her 
bristling  headgear  an  almost  abnormal  rigidity. 
The  woman  fidgeted,  stood  irresolute  a  moment, 
and  then  saying  that  her  lady  would  be  "  down," 
immediately  quitted  the  room. 

It  was  fully  ten  minutes,  however,  before 
286 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Mrs.  Trefusis  arrived,  and  Mrs.  Clyde  had  ample 
leisure  to  study  the  interior  into  which  destiny 
had  so  ruthlessly  thrust  her.  Mrs.  Clyde  had  for 
so  many  years  moved  amid  beautiful  things,  seen 
and  heard  the  best  that  art  could  furnish,  that 
she  was  not  devoid  of  that  critical  quality  which 
forms  if  it  does  not  bestow  taste.  She  found 
nothing  here  to  jar.  In  fact,  coming  from  the 
garish  over-decoration  of  the  Newport  villas,  she 
found  a  tranquility  and  a  charm  in  the  wide,  cool 
hall  she  had  traversed  and  in  this  dim  room,  with 
its  tall  white  mantelpiece,  its  midway  arch  and 
the  delicate  tracery  of  its  high  ceiling.  The  stiff 
chairs  and  sofas  were  covered  with  faded  yellow 
reps.  The  modern  note  was  furnished  by  a 
French  lamp,  some  flowers,  and  by  the  fact  that 
the  books  upon  the  table  were  evidently  intended 
for  reading  and  not  for  ornament.  A  few  really 
fine  engravings  on  the  walls  gave  an  air  of  re- 
finement and  repose  to  the  apartment,  which 
even  the  ferocity  of  Mrs.  Clyde's  prejudice  had 
to  acknowledge.  As  she  sat  upon  the  sofa,  a 
wish  that  she  had  not  come,  a  sudden  lassitude, 
almost  a  self-disgust,  born  perhaps  of  some  sub- 
tle link  between  this  quiet  house  and  her  own 
287 


Mrs.  Clyde 

childhood's  home,  invaded  her.  The  weakness 
was  of  short  duration.  Endurance  was  not  her 
province.  The  courage  which  bears  springs  not 
from  strength,  but  from  patience.  Weak  people 
astonish  us  with  their  fortitude  in  suffering. 
Mrs.  Clyde's  courage  was  not  supple.  Five 
minutes  more  and  it  had  shaken  off  its  languors. 
A  warrior  ready  to  spring  on  an  adversary 
met  Mrs.  Trefusis's  calm  greeting.  If  Mrs. 
Clyde  was  dressed  with  richness  but  without 
grace,  Mrs.  Trefusis  was  dressed  with  neither. 
Her  soft  gray  hair  was  smoothed  under  a  plain 
white  cap,  which  was  pinned  beneath  her  scant 
chignon  without  coquetry  or  elegance.  She  was 
petite,  and  the  severity  of  her  short  black  skirt 
seemed  to  accentuate  this  brevity  of  stature. 
That  bloom  to  which  early  decay  is  predicted, 
but  which  frequently  outlives  form  and  expres- 
sion, had  never  been  her  portion.  She  had 
always  been  pale.  Her  face  was  oval,  her  fea- 
tures regular  and  her  eyes  expressive.  They  had 
been  sad  even  in  girlhood.  What  had  once 
lurked  in  them  as  a  presentiment  was  now  a 
record.  Her  aspect  was  one  of  resignation;  but 
there  was  firmness  on  her  worn  lips. 
288 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,"  she 
said  advancing;  "  but  my  husband  is  an  invalid 
— a  great  sufferer,  and " 

"  I  regret  to  have  disturbed  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Clyde,  rising.  "  I  only  came  to  ask  you — 
where  is  my  daughter? "  As  she  hurled  her 
coup  she  glanced  about  the  apartment  as  if  ask- 
ing the  tables,  chairs  and  cupboards  to  give  up 
the  secret  of  Pauline's  concealment.  "  My  child 
has  been  stolen  from  me.  Where  is  she?  "  She 
raised  her  parasol  with  a  dramatic  gesture. 

"  We  are  as  ignorant  as  you  can  be  to-day 
of  the  whereabouts  of  the  wayward  young  peo- 
ple," said  Mrs.  Trefusis,  flushing  painfully; 
"  and  I  am  glad  you  give  me,  Mrs.  Clyde,  the 
opportunity  to  tell  you  so.  Please  sit  down," 
she  said  imploringly,  "  and  let  us  talk  over  this 
unfortunate  affair."  But  Mrs.  Clyde  remained 
upon  her  feet. 

"  We  know  that  people  are  false,  but  every 
new  proof  surprises  us.  You  do  not  expect  me 
to  believe,  Mrs.  Tre — Tra — la — what  is  your 
name? — that  you  are  quite  as  ingenuous  over 
this  infamy  which  has  robbed  me  of  my  girl,  as 
you  pretend?  " 

289 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  You  can  not  deplore  my  son's  conduct 
more  than  I — than  we  do.  It  has  made  his  fa- 
ther ill.  I  feel  for  you  from  the  bottom  of  my 
soul."  The  little  lady  spoke  with  feeling. 

"  Your  son,  Mrs.  Tre— Tra " 

"  Trefusis— the  Tre  is  Welsh." 

"  Taffy,  too,  I  believe,  was  a  Welshman," 
said  Mrs.  Clyde. 

"  I  don't  think  he  was  an  ancestor,"  said  Mrs. 
Trefusis,  smiling  faintly.  This  smile  let  loose 
the  dogs  of  war. 

"  Nevertheless  your  son  shares  his  propensity 
for  theft ;  and  you  dare  laugh  in  my  face,  in  your 
own  house,  after  abetting  his  cowardice  in  allur- 
ing a  well-brought-up  girl  from  her  natural  pro- 
tector and  guardian!  She  who  has  had  all  the 
best  partis  of  the  world  at  her  feet — Lord  Beau- 
mains,  son  of  the  Earl  of  Dearborn — Prince 
Auersperg-Donnersmark  asked  me  for  her  hand 
only  yesterday — openly,  like  the  gentlemen  that 
they  are — while  your  son  comes  clandestine- 
ly " 

"  I  do  not  wonder  you  are  angry,"  said  Mrs. 
Trefusis.  "  I  can  not  blame  you.  Some  day, 
perhaps,  you  will  know  his  worth  and  learn  to 
290 


Mrs.  Clyde 

judge  him  less  harshly.     Passion  is  a  poor  coun- 
sellor.    It  was  so  to  him,  it  is  so  to  you." 

Mrs.  Clyde  went  on  excitedly,  as  if  not  heed- 
ing her:  "  But  I  suppose  you  never  even  heard 
of  my  daughter's  loveliness — of  her  friends " 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Mrs.  Trefusis;  "  I  have 
heard  of  you — heard  of  you  long  ago,  and  now 
again.  I  have  heard  you  called  a  woman  of  the 
world,  taxed  with  hardness,  frivolity  and  selfish- 
ness, but  I  was  inclined  to  make  excuses  for  you, 
to  believe  you  were  misunderstood.  When  such 
as  you  discard  their  old  friends,  Mrs.  Clyde,  they 
need  look  for  no  especial  allegiance  from  their 
new.  It  is  the  fate  of  the  newly  made  rich  to 
get  scant  loyalty,  for  loyalty  means  traditions  of 
affection."  She  was  herself  standing  now  and 
confronting  Mrs.  Clyde.  Her  slight  figure 
seemed  to  have  gained  a  certain  dignity.  "  Odd 
as  it  may  seem  to  you,  I  did  not  wish  your 
daughter  for  his  wife.  I  fear  the  women  of  your 
world." 

"  Folderol  with  all  such  hypocritical  cant.  I 
fancy  you  are  not  insensible  to  the  benefits  of  in- 
come, particularly  if  you  have  English  blood  in 

you.     You  must  have  known " 

291 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  I  knew  my  son's  infatuation,"  said  Mrs. 
Trefusis,  still  gently.  "  Poor  boy,  he  could  not 
well  conceal  it.  I  can  forgive  the  injustice  that 
you  do  my  Launce  because  you  do  not  know 
him.  I  do  not  like  his  marriage  better  than  you 
do.  Rich  women  are  the  first  to  cast  a  man's 
own  poverty  in  his  teeth.  I  do  not  wish  this 
indignity  for  him.  He  has  not  earned  it.  He 
loves  her." 

"  A  pretty  way  to  prove  it,  then,  to  sneak 
into  my  house  like  this — furtively " 

A  sudden  fire  sprang  into  Mrs.  Trefusis's 
dark  eyes.  "  If  you  knew  his  noble  heart  you 
could  not  accuse  him  of  baseness,"  she  said. 
"  He  must  have  indeed  been  boldly  challenged, 
so  to  forget  his  duty." 

It  is  easy  to  crush  inferiors.  Mrs.  Clyde  was 
beginning  to  feel  that  she  had  met  her  equal, 
an  adversary  worthy  of  her — umbrella.  She 
clutched  it  with  renewed  vigour,  beating  the  air. 
"  She  seduced  and  ran  away  with  him!  Is  that 
what  you  mean?  "  she  almost  screamed.  "  Why 
don't  you  say  so  at  once?  Why  don't  you  call 
my  child  a  strumpet?  Is  this  your  judgment  of 
my  daughter's  modesty?  Is  this  all  she  gets  for 
292 


Mrs.  Clyde 

degrading  herself? "  She  had  a  disheartened 
sense  that  this  "  Trefusis  woman  "  would  not 
understand,  that  to  the  outsider  all  in  the  same 
orbit  are  compeers.  Only  the  stars  know  that 
there  are  degrees  of  splendour,  planets  and  satel- 
lites. They  had  stolen  her  Pauline  and  could 
not  even  discern  the  heaven  in  which  she  had 
reigned  supreme,  and  from  which  she  had  fallen. 

"  Believe  me,  Mrs.  Clyde,  I  feel  for  you  sin- 
cerely," said  Mrs.  Trefusis,  in  a  broken  voice. 
"We  are  both  mothers;  both  poor,  miserable 
women.  I  beg  you  to  believe  I  blame  my  son 
severely.  You  may  pity  me  as  I  pity  you;  but  I 
know  nothing,  nothing  except  that  they  are  mar- 
ried." Demonax  bade  the  Athenians  pull  down 
their  altars  to  pity  before  indulging  in  the  cruel 
battles  of  the  amphitheatre. 

"  I  don't  want  your  pity.  I  want  my  girl. 
I  shall  come  here  with  the  police  and  institute  a 
search  through  this  house.  Yes,  this  very  night. 
You  are  concealing  her  upstairs  in  some  closet. 
I  feel  it.  I  shall  go  up  and  see  your  husband. 
I  shall  have  the  law  on  you,  and  shall  be  righted. 
I  have  no  doubt  she  is  already  unhappy,  the  poor 
deluded  and  deceived  creature  that  she  is.  You 

293 


Mrs.  Clyde 

shall  be  forced  to  give  her  up.  When  I  think  of 
that  adder,  Coy  Train,  whom  I  have  nursed  in 
this  bosom,  and  clothed  and  fed,  and  married, 
and  the  way  she  has  behaved  to  me,  I  could  tear 
down  these  walls  and  shriek  to  the  whole  town 
the  perfidy  of  which  I  am  the  victim!  "  She 
walked  toward  her  hostess  with  inflamed  eye- 
balls. The  little  lady  rapidly  retreated  behind 
the  table.  "  It  is  the  anger  of  a  baffled  beast, 
not  the  sorrow  of  a  hurt  soul,"  she  thought;  but 
perhaps  she  was  wrong.  Gabriella  suffered. 

"  And  what  is  he,  this  precious  son  of  yours," 
she  now  went  on  in  a  torrent  of  unresisted  fury, 
"  to  ruin  my  Pauline's  life  and  mine  like  this — 
a  low-born  low-bred  cur " 

This  was  too  much.  Mrs.  Trefusis's  whole 
face  became  convulsed  with  anger.  Her  eyes 
flashed,  her  lips  quivered;  her  white  cap  seemed 
to  rise  up  on  her  forehead  and  assume  the  aspect 
of  a  helmet,  her  chaste  gown  to  become  an  ar- 
mour, a  fan  she  had  picked  up  in  her  excitement, 
a  spear.  "  Oh,  Gabriella  Dunham!  You  asked 
me  if  I  knew  you.  How  odd  it  seems  to  me  to 
hear  you  talk  like  this.  Why,  I  know  all  about 
you.  All.  Ever  since  we  were  both  little  tots 
294 


Mrs.  Clyde 

— I  think  we  must  be  the  same  age — I  have 
known  you.  I  am  a  niece  of  Abraham  Adams, 
of  Methuen.  Your  ancestor,  the  first  John 
Dunham,  chopped  wood  for  my  great-grandfa- 
ther when  he  was  governor  of  the  State.  I  be- 
lieve he  chopped  it  nicely.  The  governor  paid 
his  way  through  college.  I  believe  he  learned 
enough  to  teach  school  afterward.  It  is  local 
history — perhaps  you  have  no  time  to  read. 
Oh,  Gabriella  Dunham,  how  dare  you  force 
yourself  into  my  presence  and  insult  my  boy  to 
his  own  mother?  When  I  came  down  to  you 
my  heart  was  full  of  sorrow  for  you,  but  now  it 
holds  nothing  but  scorn.  There  is  the  door, 
Mrs.  Clyde — you  can  go  out  of  it.  If  you  do 
not  do  so  quickly,  I  will  have  you  put  out,  you 
vulgar,  red-faced,  painted  Jezebel!" 

As  Mrs.  Trefusis  pronounced  this  benedictus 
she  looked  positively  imposing. 

After  a  somewhat  hurried  and  inglorious 
exit,  Mrs.  Clyde  hardly  knew  how  she  got  her- 
self home.  She  felt  so  greatly  exhausted  and  so 
in  need  of  sympathy  that  she  sent  for  the  bishop. 


295 


CHAPTER    XX 

WHEN  she  came  down  into  the  pink  boudoir 
to  greet  the  prelate  the  following  morning,  the 
storm  had  spent  itself.  She  was  once  more 
erect,  with  half-closed  eyelids  and  head  upheld. 
Troubles  of  more  recent  date,  if  less  acute,  were 
uppermost. 

"  Misfortunes  never  come  singly,"  she  said, 
giving  him  her  hand.  "  I  have  just  discovered 
that  Martine,  my  maid,  is  dishonest.  You  must 
forgive  me  that  I  am  not  dressed.  The  detec- 
tives are  sitting  outside  of  her  door.  I  have 
locked  her  in.  I  shall  let  her  out  at  half-past  six 
for  an  hour  to  dress  my  hair.  I  find  she  has 
been  helping  herself  to  my  jewelry,  besides  lay- 
ing levies  upon  my  pocketbook.  After  my  toi- 
let is  made,  she  will  be  instantly  locked  up  again. 
I  now  believe  that  she  was  implicated  in  the 
frightful  cabal  which  has  robbed  me  of  my  only 
child.  Ah,  my  dear,  kind  friend,  I  am  indeed  a 
296 


Mrs.  Clyde 

most   persecuted   woman.      You   are   good    to 
come  to  me." 

Her  voice  was  low  and  sweet,  and  the  bishop 
felt  sorry  for  her.  The  smile  which  her  suspi- 
cions of  her  maid  elicited  was  quickly  concealed 
under  an  air  of  attention,  not  wholly  feigned. 
Bishop  Lowther  was  a  priest  who  might  have 
rilled  the  role  of  those  pampered  abbes,  the 
trusted  counsellors  of  French  great  ladies  in  the 
last  century.  Handsome  and  distinguished  in 
person,  graceful  in  manner,  he  possessed  all  their 
finesse,  diplomacy  and  deftness,  while  presum- 
ably guiltless  of  their  vices.  Polished,  discreet, 
conservative,  he  seemed  created  for  guide  to  the 
birds  of  gay  plumage  who  fluttered  every  Sun- 
day morning  into  their  pews  to  listen  to  his 
cheering  sermons.  Cheering  they  were  rather 
than  terrifying.  His  Christianity  above  all  was 
the  gospel  of  hope.  If  not  exalted  it  was  emi- 
nently encouraging.  His  worldly  wisdom,  born 
of  environment  and  circumstance,  gave  him  a 
wide  charity.  He  looked  at  men  and  women 
with  philosophic  clearness.  He  did  not  think 
to  gather  "  figs  from  thorns,  or  grapes  from 
thistles,"  yet  he  was  amiably  inclined  to  believe 
297 


Mrs.  Clyde 

that  thorns  and  thistles  might  have  their  uses; 
that  in  some  future  evolution  of  spiritual  force 
even  these  worthless  products  might  be  gar- 
nered to  some  purpose.  He  was  able  to  appre- 
hend Mrs.  Clyde.  To  see  that  she  had  her  niche 
in  a  world  of  mediocrity;  that  her  strong  indi- 
viduality was  not  sporadic  but  a  product.  She 
did  more  than  amuse  him — she  interested  him. 
He  came  to  her  summons  with  alacrity  and  now 
he  held  out  his  hands  to  her  in  friendly  sympa- 
thy. He  was  inclined  to  pity  her  isolation;  but 
as  I  have  said,  the  blizzard  was  over.  It  was  the 
last  moan  of  a  dying  tempest  to  which  the  bishop 
was  called  upon  to  listen. 

"  All  I  asked  of  her  was  to  profit  by  my 
efforts,"  she  was  saying  to  him.  "  God  knows 
my  life  has  been  a  struggle."  He  did  not  feel 
compelled  to  tell  her,  as  would  have  done  the 
more  ascetic  of  his  brethren,  that  the  struggle 
was  in  vain,  because  its  objects  were  pernicious, 
futile  and  vile.  He  did  not  expect  figs  from 
this  thorn,  or  grapes  from  this  thistle,  but  he  felt 
that  this  particular  thistle  and  thorn  was  of  such 
a  growth  and  strength  that  its  development  was 
worthy  better  things,  perhaps,  than  the  fires  of 
298 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Gehenna.  Such  as  it  was,  it  now  lay  broken 
and  bruised,  so  that  the  bishop,  who  had  a  kind- 
ly heart,  felt  inclined  to  raise  and  bind  it  and  set 
it  on  its  stem  and  to  bid  it  stand  upright,  just  as 
One  whom  he  had  sworn  to  emulate  bade  the 
cripple  stand,  take  up  his  bed  and  walk. 

The  bishop  had  come  to  console;  he  would 
not  stay  to  upbraid.  He  knew  all  Mrs.  Clyde's 
weakness  and  understood  it.  He  could  compre- 
hend earthly  ambitions:  he  was  a  father.  He 
appealed  to  that  very  weakness.  He  was  as  wily 
as  a  serpent,  if  innocuous  as  a  dove. 

"  Where  is  my  reward?  "  said  Mrs.  Clyde. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  lady,"  said  the  bishop,  "  there 
is  none  for  parents — none.  This  vicarious  sacri- 
fice does  not  suit  the  energies  of  twenty — they 
want  to  struggle  for  themselves.  My  poor  wife 
felt  as  you  do  when  our  Enid  married,  not  wisely 
as  we  felt,  and  so  young.  She  was  not  beautiful 
like  your  Pauline,  but  we  thought  her  very 
sweet." 

"  She  is  very  sweet,"  said  Mrs.  Clyde. 

"  She  had  been  her  mamma's  constant  com- 
panion and  confidante — too  much  so.  I  doubt 
if  we  should  keep  the  young  with  us  so  much. 
299 


Mrs.  Clyde 

Companionship  of  their  own  age  is  preferable. 
We  unconsciously  imbue  them  with  our  own  dis- 
trust of  motive,  with  our  dejections,  disillusions, 
cynicisms.  You  are  making  yourself  much 
more  wretched  than  you  need.  Pauline  has 
been  disobedient  and  we  must  condemn  her. 
While  Trefusis,  whom  I  know  well  and  who  is  a 
fine  fellow,  has  been  led  away  by  his  infatua- 
tion. Miss  Pauline  is  very  attractive.  He  is 
much  enamoured.  Now,  you  are  so  far-seeing 
and  so  intelligent,  you  must  perceive  that  the 
very  attributes  you  deplore  in  these  young 
people  are  the  ones  which  may  carry  them  far. 
Their  step — though  rash — shows  character. 
The  girl  who  takes  such  initiative,  runs  such 
risks,  is  often  the  very  one  who  will  push  her 
husband  in  the  paths  of  fame  and  success;  a  man 
whose  ardour  gets  the  better  of  his  judgment  is 
sometimes  possessed  of  those  qualities  which 
herald  genius.  Genius,  you  know,"  he  said 
smiling,  "  is  a  spirit  out  of  bondage.  It  clips 
the  wind.  We,  who  have  none,  hug  our  chains 
and  say  it  is  insane;  but  no  code  of  Theodosian 
or  Justinian  could  ever  bind  it!  You  will  live  to 
see  Pauline  a  splendid  flower  of  our  American 
300 


Mrs.  Clyde 

civilization,  her  husband  President  of  the  United 
States!  Believe  me,  it  is  a  far  healthier  ambition 
than  to  build  up  the  decadents  of  the  Old  World 
and  be  their  tools,  if  not  their  dupes." 

Mrs.  Clyde  dried  her  eyes  and  looked  up  at 
the  wily  bishop  with  the  eagerness  of  one  who 
longs  to  be  convinced.  She  hated  gloom. 

"  You  do  me  good,"  she  murmured. 

"  Ah,  dear  me!  These  hot  impulses  of  youth 
are  disquieting,  no  doubt,  but  are  they  not 
heaven-directed?  It  must  have  been  old  fellows 
like  myself  who  made  the  laws  insisting  youth 
should  revere  age.  It  is  youth  we  should  re- 
vere, with  all  its  beautiful  beliefs  and  hopes 
which  we  have  jeopardized  or  forfeited." 

"  You  know  him,  you  say?  " 

"  Well.  He  was  a  class-mate  of  our  How- 
ard. He  was  the  idol  of  the  class,  their  avowed 
leader." 

"  It  seems  the  mother  was  a  niece  of  Abra- 
ham Adams,  of  Methuen.  I  know  the  family. 
I  had  rather  a  warm  encounter  with  her — the 
mother,  I  mean."  Mrs.  Clyde  laughed,  raising 
her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth. 

"  She  is  a  lady  and  a  charming  person.  The 
20  301 


Mrs.  Clyde 

father  is  a  man  of  parts,  of  thought.  The 
mother's  people  were  always  prominent  in  State 
and  Church — legislators,  clergymen,  governors, 
men  of  refinement  and  education — admirable, 
while  Trefusis  is  of  good  Welsh  stock — with  a 
crest,"  added  the  bishop  smiling.  Then  these 
two  laughed  together  in  an  entente  which  was 
Masonic. 

"  And  my  enemies  all  triumphing  over  me!  " 
said  Mrs.  Clyde  in  her  last  protest.  "  All  these 
wicked,  wicked  tongues  set  a-wagging.  Ah, 
bishop,  it  seems  to  me  more  than  a  saint  can  sup- 
port. When  I  think  of  it,  I  am  outraged." 
And  a  fresh  burst  of  anger  seemed  imminent  as 
Mrs.  Clyde  threw  back  her  head  and  the  blood 
mounted  to  her  face. 

"  Depend  upon  it,  my  dear  madam,  it  is  you 
who  can  give  or  deny  them  food  for  their  mal- 
veillance.  Nothing  will  give  them  more  content 
than  to  see  a  house  as  powerful  as  your  own  di- 
vided against  itself.  Remember  where  it  is  writ- 
ten that  such  an  house  must  fall.  Bless  me! 
how  uncommon  is  romance  in  this  material  day 
of  ours !  Try  and  think  leniently  of  your  erring 
Romeo  and  Juliet  and  call  them  back  to  you  to 
302 


Mrs.  Clyde 

be  forgiven.  Ah!"  he  added,  rising,  and  be- 
coming suddenly  very  grave,  "  love  and  forgive- 
ness— love  and  forgiveness — there  is  nothing 
else — that  is  best." 

Her  head  dropped  for  a  moment  upon  her 
breast. 

"  God  bless  and  comfort  you,  my  daughter," 
said  the  bishop,  just  touching  her  forehead  with 
his  ringer. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  murmured,  inaudibly.  A 
silence  fell  between  them.  By  and  bye,  "  It  is 
romantic,"  she  said.  "  Pauline  has  spirit."  She 
followed  him  to  the  door.  "  How  does  the  or- 
phanage get  on?  "  she  asked  a  little  huskily. 

"  Well  enough — well  enough.  We  make 
the  little  dears  as  comfortable  as  we  can,  but  we 
are  always  hard  up,  ready  for  contributions." 

He  waved  his  farewell  from  the  veranda 
steps. 

"  I  will  send  one,"  she  called  out  after  him. 

She  came  back  into  the  hall.  Romeo  and 
Juliet!  She  crossed  into  the  library.  She 
pushed  a  chair  before  her  to  the  bookcase.  She 
hoisted  herself  on  the  seat  with  some  effort,  for 
she  was  growing  stout — ah,  yes,  here  it  was! 
303 


Mrs.  Clyde 

She  found  her  Shakespeare,  all  the  volumes, 
Merchant  of  Venice,  All's  Well  That  Ends 
Well,  Timon  of  Athens,  Romeo  and  Juliet — 
here  it  was!  How  her  once  fine  mind  was 
dwindling  with  her  soul  on  empty  husks,  starved 
of  real  aliment!  How  many  decades  did  it 
seem  since  she  had  read!  How  many  years 
since  she  had  thought!  She  came  off  her  perch 
rather  ponderously,  and  blowing  on  the  dusty 
margin,  opened  at  the  page.  She  began  to  read. 
How  should  she  silence  her  enemies?  Ro- 
mance? Yes,  here  was  a  loophole.  The  poor 
woman  read  and  read  and  read,  lost  at  last  in  the 
enthralling  tale,  rocked  by  the  tragic  poem  of 
love,  so  dear  to  all  youth — to  all  youth — ay,  once 
to  her  own. 

She  was  so  absorbed  that  when  the  butler 
announced  "  The  Princess  dTstria  and  two  other 
ladies,  madam,"  she  frowned  at  him,  impatient 
of  interruption.  It  was  too  late.  They  were 
already  in  the  drawing-room.  She  carefully 
slipped  a  card  to  hold  her  page  and  went  to 
greet  her  visitors. 

A  red  sunset  was  bleeding  in  the  sky,  filling 
the  room  with  crimson.  Great  roses  made  it 
304 


Mrs.  Clyde 

sweet,  dipping  their  long  and  leafy  stems  in  crys- 
tal bowls.  "  Detail  is  costly,  but  effect  is 
cheap,"  Mrs.  Clyde  had  been  wont  to  say  when 
advising  thrift  to  younger  friends.  In  this 
apartment  effect  was  paramount.  Colour,  rich- 
ness and  warmth  were  produced  with  simple  dis- 
position of  lights,  flowers  and  draperies. 

The  Princess  d'Istria  had  brought  with  her 
an  English  lady,  whom  Mrs.  Clyde  had  known 
in  Rome,  where  she  resided.  Boadicea,  Duch- 
ess of  Stavordale,  was  now  visiting  her  friend, 
the  princess,  at  her  cottage  on  Bellevue  Avenue. 
The  third  lady  was  Mrs.  Dennison  Fay  Prentiss. 
Madame  d'Istria  was  one  of  those  women  whose 
friendship  savours  a  little  too  much  of  philan- 
thropy, whose  civility  to  her  acquaintance  car- 
ries some  of  the  stiff  condescension  with  which 
we  approach  the  poor;  but  the  glance  which  her 
deep  eyes  directed  toward  Mrs.  Clyde  was  not 
one  of  commiseration.  The  duchess  was  a  fat, 
gloomy  person,  who,  one  of  her  numerous 
daughters  having  eloped  with  a  groom,  was  sup- 
posed to  be  unusually  well  fitted  to  sympathize 
with  Mrs.  Clyde's  present  dilemma.  If  this  par- 
ticular Queen  of  the  Iceni  had  not  been  flogged 
305 


Mrs.  Clyde 

like  her  namesake,  she  had  nevertheless  been 
chastened.  Mrs.  Prentiss's  curiosity  was  piqued 
by  a  stinging  desire  to  see  how  Mrs.  Clyde  would 
bear  herself  under  this  disappointment.  She 
had  never  liked  her. 

"  I  should  have  called  upon  you  before,"  said 
the  princess,  "  but  have  been  far  from  well." 

"  Your  indisposition  has  not  affected  your 
beauty,"  said  Gabriella,  in  her  largest  manner. 

The  conversation  was  led  into  impersonal 
channels,  but  the  duchess  and  Mrs.  Prentiss 
were  thirsting  for  information  and  were  not  to 
be  quenched  with  drops.  They  lost  patience 
and  rushed  at  the  fountainhead. 

"  We  have  felt  so  much  for  you,"  ventured 
Mrs.  Prentiss. 

"  When  I  saw  that  young  man,"  said  the 
duchess,  "  I  remarked  to  Aurelia  that  I  did  not 
like  his  expression.  Don't  you  remember,  my 
dear?  I  said  it  was  quite  eerie." 

"  To  whom  do  you  allude? "  asked  Mrs. 
Clyde  sharply. 

"  We  knew  you  were  greatly  afflicted,"  said 
Mrs.    Prentiss.      "  The   duchess    means   young 
Trefusis,  of  course — who — who——" 
306 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  Oh,  Lochinvar,"  said  Mrs.  Clyde,  smiling. 
"  Yes,  he  has  carried  off  my  baby,  and  I  am  a 
lonely  enough  old  hen  without  her;  but  what 
will  you  have?  We  must  revere  these  impulses 
of  youth."  (She  repeated  the  bishop's  words.) 
"  I  hear  nothing  but  praises  of  him.  His  family 
is  one  of  the  first  in  the  land — nothing  better. 
He  is  full  of  talent,  a  rising  man.  We  shall  hear 
of  him.  Pauline  was  entetee.  I  was  blind.  I 
should  of  course  have  been  better  pleased  to  see 
her  one  day  Countess  of  Dearborn  or  Princess  of 
Auersperg-Donnersmark,  but  if  these  gentle- 
men did  not  know  how  to  win  her,  it  is  not  my 
fault,  is  it?  She  fell  in  love.  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
Romeo  and  Juliet!  " 

"  I  came  to  congratulate  you,"  said  Madame 
d'Istria,  "  on  Pauline's  narrow  escape.  I  have 
tested  princes."  There  was  a  silence.  The  prin- 
cess continued.  "  I  confess  I  have  found  the  par- 
doning process  in  my  own  case  to  be  difficult,  but 
I  would  advise  you  to  forgive  Pauline." 

"  I  shall  not  quarrel  with  my  only  child," 
said  Mrs.  Clyde,  with  some  dignity.  "  My 
home  is  hers  always.  When  they  come  back 
they  will  be  received." 

307 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  And  to  say  we  came  to  weep  with  her!  " 
said  the  ladies  when  they  got  themselves  into 
their  landau. 

"  Pauline  is  an  undutiful  minx,"  said  the 
duchess,  settling  herself  on  the  back  seat.  "  I 
don't  see,  Aurelia,  how  you  can  admire  her  con- 
duct. She  was  horridly  spoiled  when  a  little 
child  in  Rome.  As  for  the  young  man,  I  do  not 
like  the  look  of  him.  He  resembles  Henry 
VIII.  He  must  have  been  thinking  of  her 
money.  I  dare  say  he  will  murder  her  after  he 
has  got  it."  Which  lurid  presage  seemed  to 
give  her  grace  a  measure  of  satisfaction.  "  I 
consider  her  mamma  far  too  lenient.  When  I 
had  my  trouble  with  our  Arabella " 

"  Our  men  aren't  tuft-hunters  or  mercenary 
like  Europeans,"  said  Mrs.  Prentiss  a  little  spite- 
fully. "  Mr.  Trefusis  is  quite  good  enough  for 
the  Clydes." 

"  She  is  a  wonderful  woman,"  murmured 
Aurelia  d'Istria,  "  and  I  respect  her." 

"  La!  "  said  the  duchess,  who  was  disap- 
pointed at  her  ineffectual  onslaught  upon  the 
ravisher. 

"  They  won't  crow  over  me  this  time," 
308 


Mrs.  Clyde 

thought  Gabriella,  "  and  as  for  that  silly-tongued 
old  parrot,  the  duchess,  who  thinks  she  can  pat- 
ronize her  betters,  she  had  better  look  after  her 
footman  son-in-law  and  leave  mine,  who  is  a 
gentleman,  to  manage  his  own  affairs." 

She  ordered  her  carriage  and  had  herself  con- 
veyed to  the  cliffs.  The  weather  had  changed. 
The  evening  was  falling  dark  and  gusty.  It 
weighed  upon  her  spirit.  The  efforts  she  was 
making  were  telling  upon  her  nerves.  She  felt 
that  she  could  not  brook  to  meet  the  staring 
cohorts  of  Bellevue  Avenue;  she  craved  an 
hour's  physical  activity.  In  certain  dispositions 
of  the  mind,  movement  is  as  indispensable  as 
solitude.  She  got  out  of  her  low  victoria  in  one 
of  the  cross-roads  which  lead  to  the  sea.  She 
bade  her  men  meet  her  farther  on,  naming  the 
Heathcotes'  villa,  a  half  mile  distant,  near  which 
they  were  to  wait. 

She  was  infinitely  triste.  Martine's  defec- 
tion, the  lack  of  devotion  among  her  other  servi- 
tors, the  too  evident  indifference  of  her  friends, 
the  gratification  of  her  detractors,  certain  en- 
tanglements of  her  property — which  was  mis- 
managed, and  her  income  thus  embarrassed,  if 
309 


Mrs.  Clyde 

not  jeopardized — came  as  so  many  insect  stings 
to  probe  and  fret  above  the  one  great  ache. 

She  had  brought  no  energy  to  her  toilet; 
possibly  for  this  reason,  it  was  unusually  becom- 
ing. She  was  dressed  in  closely  fitting  black, 
with  a  dark  hat  and  veil.  She  looked  slenderer 
than  usual,  more  simple  and  more  womanly. 
One  would  scarcely  have  recognised  in  this  quiet 
figure  the  enraged  virago  of  the  Trefusis  episode. 
The  corners  of  her  mouth  drooped  pathetically, 
as  if  appealing  to  some  hidden  tribunal  for  abso- 
lution from  further  pain.  An  unusually  gentle 
mood  was  upon  her — the  restfulness  of  the  irrev- 
ocable. She  had  heard  from  Pauline;  and  had 
written  to  her,  and  had  been  surprised  at  her 
own  lenity.  She  was  tired  of  warfare — sick  of 
it  all.  Such  minutes  were  so  rare  with  her  as 
to  be  doubly  strange.  She  was  gripped,  as  it 
were,  in  the  limitations  of  her  own  powers.  She 
had  been  beaten  and  was  almost  anxious  to  lay 
down  her  arms. 

The  cliffs  were  deserted.     Nay,  not  quite,  for 

approaching  her,  walking  slowly,  the  form  of  a 

man  suddenly  detached  itself  from  the  bushes 

and  loomed  before  her  on  the  narrow  path.     She 

310 


Mrs.  Clyde 

hastily  drew  her  veil  across  her  lips,  hoping  it 
might  not  be  an  acquaintance.  It  seemed  un- 
likely. Her  world  was  never  here  at  this  late 
hour. 

As  the  figure  approached  her  in  the  dusk 
against  the  background  of  vague  sky,  she  saw 
it  was  no  Newporter,  yet  there  was  a  certain 
familiarity  in  the  gait.  They  drew  close  to  each 
other.  He  stepped  aside  to  let  her  pass  him, 
raising  his  hand  to  his  hat.  Although  he  was 
dressed  like  other  men,  there  was  about  him  that 
unmistakable  tenue  which  is  acquired  only 
through  military  discipline.  Modern  athletics 
do  not  bestow  the  impressive  brevet.  The  ten- 
der brown  mustache  was  now  a  bristling  gray; 
the  Endymion  curls,  cropped  fiercely  en  brosse, 
had  retreated  from  the  low,  broad  brow;  the 
delicate,  insignificant  features  seemed  to  have 
acquired  rugged  outlines;  the  complexion  had 
bronzed,  while  the  shoulders  had  the  breadth  and 
assurance  of  the  soldier's  whose  battles  have  all 
been  victories.  The  deep  breaths  of  success  en- 
large. 

"Walter!"  faltered  Mrs.  Clyde. 

"Mrs.  Clyde!" 


CHAPTER    XXI 

SHE  regretted  her  strained  relations  with 
Martine  which  had  prevented  her  from  putting 
on  her  new  cobalt  bonnet.  Her  dark  toque  had 
been  pinned  by  less  artistic  forethought.  She 
raised  her  hand  to  settle  it  with  the  woman's 
rapid  instinct  of  self-respect.  A  fitful  wind  had 
whirled  her  hair. 

"  It  must  be  my  voice  that  you  remember," 
she  said  to  him,  as  he  turned  and  swung  himself 
into  her  pace.  "  Surely  you  could  never  have 
recognised  my  face." 

"  I  should  have  recognised  it  anywhere,"  he 
answered,  gallantly,  "  even  far  from  here,  where 
I  knew  it  possible." 

"  But  you  would  not  have  looked  me  up?  " 
she  asked,  reproachfully. 

He  shrugged  away  the  imputation.  "  How 
could  I  tell  it  would  not  bore  you?  " 

"  Bore  me  to  receive  an  old  friend  and  a 
312 


Mrs.  Clyde 

great  general,"  she  said,  "  whose  honours  are  on 
every  tongue?  " 

"  I  remember  I  used  to  bore  you  awfully," 
he  replied,  "  in  my  callow  days.  But  then  I  was 
only  in  the  ranks." 

She  detected  a  tremour  of  irony  in  his  voice. 

"  Ah!  "  she  said,  "  I  was  too  impatient." 

"  No,  too  wise." 

Even  at  this  great  distance  the  wound  had 
left  some  trace.  He  really  cared,  she  thought. 

"  Deep  characters  like  yours,  General  Perry, 
feel  small  hurts  too  much." 

It  seemed  she  had  not  quite  thrown  away  the 
hero  in  her  soul. 

"  You  call  it  small?  " 

"  If  you  believed  me  treacherous  .  .  .  Wal- 
ter," she  said,  with  unexplained  emotion,  "  I 
have  been  punished — I  am  alone." 

"  Oh,  I  fancy  never  that,"  he  replied,  a  little 
dryly;  "always  surrounded,  always  a  sovereign, 
always  the  first." 

She  swallowed  a  sob  from  she  knew  not  what 
spring. 

"  I  am  alone.  My  only  child  has  just  de- 
serted me." 

313 


Mrs.  Clyde 

He  grew  grave  immediately.  "  I  had  heard 
• — something." 

"  You,"  she  said  abruptly,  "  how  many  have 
you?  Children? " 

"  My  boy  is  at  West  Point,  my  girls — two — • 
are  with  their  mother  at  the  hotel." 

"  You  are  here  for  the  review?  to  meet  the 
President?  My  personal  interests  have  been  so 
paramount  these  last  few  days  I  have  scarcely 
seen  the  newspapers." 

"  Yes.     Then  I  return  to  my  command." 

"  Life  has  treated  you  well,  as  you  deserved." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  deserts? "  he  asked, 
looking  at  her  narrowly;  "in  special  interposi- 
tions of  Providence?  We  have  travelled  far 
from  those  old  times  when  doubt  was  imputed 
sin." 

"  Yes,  certainly,  I  believe  in  retribution." 

"Then  why  did  not  you  get  the  small-pox 
and  lose  your  beauty,  like  the  little  girls  in 
French  story-books,  after  you  gave  me  the  mit- 
ten so  cruelly?  The  only  retribution  is  the 
effect  of  our  actions  upon  ourselves." 

She  pulled  at  her  hat  again.  It  was  such  a 
long  time  since  words  like  these  had  brushed  her 
314 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ears!  She  laughed.  "Time  gives  us  all  the 
small-pox,"  she  said.  "  But  really,  it  has  only 
improved  you.  You  look  taller." 

"  A  mere  question  of  epaulets,"  he  said,  just 
touching  his  left  shoulder  with  his  cane. 

"  I  want  to  see  you  wear  them." 

"  Shall  you  come  to  the  review  at  the  fort? 
Will  it  be  fashionable?  " 

"  We  will  make  it  so,"  she  said.  He  was  a 
warrior  at  once  disarmed. 

"  Dear  me,"  he  said,  "  that  '  we,'  Mrs.  Clyde, 
has  given  me  the  heart-beat." 

"  Not  fatal,  I  hope." 

Their  eyes  met  and  read  for  a  moment  all  the 
awe  of  destiny.  They  strolled  along  in  silence, 
with  only  the  solemnity  of  the  sea  between  them. 

"  It  is  difficult  to  say,"  he  finally  murmured, 
"  just  how  fatal  remembrance  may  be.  What  to 
one  is  an  obstacle,  to  another  is  a  stepping-stone. 
You  and  I,  Mrs.  Clyde,  are  different  only  in  this, 
you  leap  impedimenta,  I  painfully  climb  over 
them." 

Mrs.  Clyde  was  not  sentimental.  She  was 
already  deciding  on  what  day  to  ask  them  to 
dine,  and  hoping  the  girls  were  tolerably  nice- 
315 


Mrs.  Clyde 

looking.  Snobs  are  cowards.  Mrs.  Clyde  was 
no  such.  She  meant  to  give  her  hand  to  these 
new-comers.  She  was  ready-witted  enough 
now,  in  spite  of  social  cogitations,  to  answer  him 
in  his  own  strain.  She  was  also  somewhat 
moved. 

"  Ah,  leaping  may  make  one  breathless 
enough  and  tear  one  up  sadly  inwardly  and  out- 
wardly. You  have,  at  any  rate,  succeeded, 
while,  to-day,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  failed." 

"  I  fervently  hope,"  he  said,  "  it  is  but  a 
mood,  for  you  were  not  born  to  be  frustrated." 

"  And  you  are  happy?  " 

He  hesitated. 

"  What  is  happiness?  " 

"  Oh,  gratified  ambitions,"  she  said,  prompt- 
ly; "they  alone  give  it.  The  affections  tor- 
ment." 

"  To  me  happiness  seems  a  scope  for  the 
highest  uses  of  our  activity,  for  the  develop- 
ment of  our  best  aptitudes  and  talents.  I  found 
this,  I  suppose,  when  I  embraced  the  military 
career,  and  therefore  I  am — happy." 

"  Then  you  agree  with  me  that  love " 

"  Is  torture?  Yes,  the  selfish  side  of  it. 
316 


Mrs.  Clyde 

The  wanting  those  we  love  to  love  us  back 
again;  to  live  the  life  we  plan  for  them,  not 
theirs;  to  minister  to  our  pride,  caprice  and 
comfort.  The  love  which  knows  no  price,  asks 
no  reward,  looks  for  no  gratitude — that  alone 
has  dignity,  that  alone  has  value." 

It  was  hard  for  her  to  soar,  she  had  so  clipped 
her  wings;  but  the  rudiments,  it  seems,  are  in 
us  all — hers  pushed  for  a  moment  to  the  light. 

"  I  think  I  understand  you,"  she  said,  quite 
softly.  "  That  would  be  patriotism,  philan- 
thropy, religion;  things  that  are  noble  and  do 
not  debase;  things  that  for  an  instant  uplift  us 
out  of  ourselves,  out  of  our  squalor,  to  the 
stars." 

He  looked  at  her  astonished.  "  When  you 
left  me,  Gabriella,  I  had  time  to  think  of  all  these 
things  long  and  bitterly.  I  knew  I  had  but 
tried  to  cripple  you,  never  to  help  you;  I  was 
all  to  my  own  aims  and  hopes.  I  was  so  young! 
I  thought  women  were  meant  to  further  these. 
Dunham!  What  folly!  I  ought  to  have 
guessed  you  were  made  for  the  world.  What 
an  egotist,  what  a  fool  I  was!  " 

"  No,  never  that,  and  always  generous."  She 
317 


Mrs.  Clyde 

began  to  feel  somewhat  exhausted,  as  people  of 
the  plain  are  wont  to  feel  on  mountain  heights. 
She  brought  him  back  to  lower  latitudes. 

"  Here's  my  carriage.  It  is  late.  I  will  not 
ask  you  to  come  to  me  to-night;  I  will  first  call 
upon  your  wife  and  daughters.  I  may  do  so, 
n'  est  ce  pas?  "  she  said,  simply. 

"  They  will  be  charmed  and  honoured."  He 
lifted  his  hat. 

The  footman  sprang  to  the  box,  the  horses 
pranced  to  the  coachman's  teasing  whip.  Mrs. 
Clyde  waved  her  parasol. 

"  Yet  once  she  had  leaned  to  his  kiss, 
And  once  he  had  known  her  tears." 

If  he  could  moralize  on  the  past  and  see 
where  his  mistakes  had  been,  he  could  at  the 
same  time  ask  himself,  were  they  mistakes?  He 
did  not  much  believe  in  the  direct  interposition 
of  Providence.  He  lacked  the  complacency  of 
the  elect.  "  We  should  have  crushed  each 
other,"  he  thought,  a  little  sadly,  as  he  wandered 
back  through  the  darkness  to  his  hotel.  Yet, 
being  a  man  of  imagination,  he  did  not  belittle 
the  romantic  aspect  of  his  meeting  on  the  cliffs 
with  his  old  love.  Perhaps  his  vanity  was  just  a 


Mrs.  Clyde 

trifle  caressed  by  the  reflection  that  he  had  been 
the  first  lover  of  a  lady  whose  importance  was 
acknowledged.  If  she  did  not  seem  to-day,  as  a 
woman,  quite  to  account  for  the  very  real  an- 
guish she  had  once  caused  him,  her  celebrity  as 
a  public  personage  weighed  in  the  balance  of  his 
appreciation.  She  had  evidently  been  worth 
while.  Few  men  can  say  this  of  their  past  illu- 
sions. 

He  soon  had  opportunity  to  gauge  her  par- 
ticular potency.  She  called  upon  the  wife  and 
daughters.  Mrs.  Perry,  who  was  a  Western 
woman  of  some  fortune,  was  found  to  be  a  per- 
son of  large  skeleton  with  a  mouthful  of  very 
white  teeth.  The  daughters  were  equally  well 
articulated,  and  their  dentition  was  as  conspicu- 
ously adequate.  They  had  the  easy  manner  of 
the  "  army  girl  "  joined  to  the  veneer  of  the 
"  best  posts."  The  general  explained  Mrs. 
Clyde's  kindnesses  with  the  awkward  tergiver- 
sations exploited  by  his  sex  in  such  predicament. 
All  men  are  prudent  with  their  women;  in  other 
words,  cowards.  Mrs.  Perry  was  not  inclined 
to  indiscreet  probings.  If  such  were  practised 
in  the  fastnesses  of  the  connubial  fortress  they 
319 


Mrs.  Clyde 

passed  without  much  bloodshed.  She  was 
good-humoured  and  did  not  mean  to  quarrel 
with  the  success  of  her  girls'  "  outing."  We  in- 
flame the  sentiment  we  recognise.  Was  Mrs. 
Perry  astute  enough  to  have  guessed  this? 

Mrs.  Clyde  made  not  only  the  review,  but 
the  Perrys,  the  mode.  They  had  a  "  heavenly  " 
two  weeks  of  it,  thanks  to  her  benignant  offices. 
If  the  brave  soldier  lingered  once  and  again  to 
express  his  gratitude  in  slightly  overwarm  ac- 
cents under  the  palms  of  the  rose  boudoir,  if 
Gabriella  told  him  all  her  sorrows  and  gained 
that  sympathy  she  so  desired,  and  of  which  her 
newer  friends  were  niggardly,  it  is  certain  that 
the  most  prudish  observer  could  have  found  no 
fault  with  the  tenor  of  their  tete-a-tetes.  Mrs. 
Perry  herself  and  the  young  ladies  would  indeed 
have  had  a  jaundiced  vision  had  they  found 
aught  to  censure.  She  enjoyed  the  exhibition 
of  her  beneficence;  she  enjoyed — what  woman 
would  not? — the  homage  of  one  whose  heart  had 
once  been  wholly  hers  and  still  held  the  tender 
memory  of  Northern  natures.  What  was  more 
to  the  purpose,  her  own  mercurial  mind  was  dis- 
tracted from  useless  broodings.  The  Perrys 
320 


Mrs.  Clyde 

were  useful  to  her  as  she  to  them.  She  danced 
them  through  their  fortnight,  bade  them  God- 
speed, and  rested,  with  the  conviction  that  after 
all  even  a  wilful  child  could  not  quite  poison 
the  springs  of  strength. 


321 


CHAPTER    XXII 

FIVE  o'clock  in  a  marble  mansion,  on  a 
gay,  sunny  afternoon.  Outside,  the  rumble  of 
wheels,  the  oaths  of  the  "  cabby,"  the  scream  of 
the  flying  nurse  invoking  the  arm  of  the  law  to 
pilot  her  perambulator  across  the  maze,  the  lazy 
pose  of  the  girl  in  the  big  hat  and  the  youth  in 
the  covert  coat  at  the  corner,  the  occasional 
"  bus  "  heaving  its  hulk  in  portentous  proximity 
to  the  swaying  tea-cart  with  its  "  smart  "  occu- 
pants, or  the  low  barouche  with  its  freight  of 
loveliness.  Inside,  low,  large  dim  rooms  open- 
ing on  a  hall  bright  with  its  lighted  lamps  where 
footmen  stand  and  wait  to  admit  the  habitues 
across  the  threshold  of  the  inner  sanctuary. 
These  are  the  intime  apartments.  The  loftier 
drawing-rooms,  the  ball-rooms,  are  above.  Mr. 
Remington,  well  preserved  in  spite  of  his  sev- 
enty-five years,  is  hugging  the  fire,  in  front  of 
which  he  extends  frozen  fingers,  while  Mr.  Ath- 
322 


Mrs.  Clyde 

erton,  an  earlier  comer,  a  man  fascinating  to 
women,  lounges  in  an  armchair  close  to  the 
grate. 

They  are  discussing  the  literary  movement 
of  the  hour.  Mrs.  Heathcote  and  Mrs.  Jack 
Gresham  are  exchanging  social  impressions,  sip- 
ping their  tea  on  a  dark  sofa.  The  hostess,  in 
walking  dress  and  boots,  is  exhaling  anxious 
whispers  to  a  gentleman  unknown  to  the  other 
visitors  and  whom  she  has  hurriedly  designated 
upon  his  entrance  as  her  "  lawyer."  He  lis- 
tens to  her  with  bent  head  in  rapt  attention, 
but  his  rat-like  eyes  devour  the  detail  of  an 
establishment  whose  secrets  he  fain  would 
fathom. 

"  You  must  admit  he  has  great  skill,"  says 
Atherton. 

"  Yes,  I  admit  it,  but  I  am  sick  of  his  nig- 
glings,  tired  of  his  processes,  spent  with  his 
threshings." 

"  Are  you  still  clinging  to  Victor  Hugo?  " 
said  Atherton,  with  sarcastic  laughter. 

"  I  cling  to  the  humanities.  Yes,  you  are 
right.  Romanticism!  What  is  it?  A  matter 
of  Fantine's  hair  and  teeth?  Is  there  any  real- 
323 


Mrs.  Clyde 

ism  more  awful  than  the  mud  of  the  tavern 
thrown  in  the  creature's  back?  Eh?  " 

"  Oh,  those  effects  are  so  used,  so  hackneyed. 
In  him  " — he  named  a  modern  American  novel- 
ist, penetratingly  American  in  spite  of  or  because 
he  has  chosen  an  English  setting — "  we  have 
such  delicate  freshness " 

"  Freshness!  Bah!  You  call  that  fresh- 
ness! Those  voulues  surprises!  Those  la- 
boured climaxes!  Give  me  the  thrill  which  has 
sent  me  to  the  street  to  pick  up  some  poor 
devil  of  the  gutter  and  get  him  on  his  legs  again; 
the  tonic  which  has  made  me  turn  sickened  away 
from  the  gratification  of  an  animal  whim." 

"  In  other  words,  Remington,  you  crave  the 
moral.  It's  the  everlasting  story!  Oh,  I  admit 
the  Papa  Hugos  gave  it  to  us,  ad  nauseam." 

"  I  crave  something  more  than  the  mere  fret 
and  exhilaration  of  the  intellect.  Art  should 
appeal  to  the  emotions;  speak  to  the  heart." 

"  At  least,  you  must  acknowledge,  he  has 
written  no  line  that  shall  stir  morbid  instincts." 

"  Granted  he  has  the  vision  of  a  spectacled 
spinster,  the  morals  of  an  English  young  ladies' 
governess.  I  bear  him  no  grudge  for  this. 
324 


Mrs.  Clyde 

But,  in  the  name  of  heaven,  what  splendid  action 
did  he  ever  inspire?  What  tendency  to  crime 
did  he  ever  arrest?  " 

"  But  such  a  master  of  style!  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  no  doubt;  he  is  industrious,  he 
has  the  trick,  the  nervous  fluid  of  the  word!  No 
one  fears  it  more  than  I  do — the  jugglery  of  the 
phrase!  I  was  always  its  vassal,  always  its  vic- 
tim— the  word's.  It  has  ruined  me.  I  don't 
minimize  its  influence.  As  an  eminent  man  of 
letters  was  saying  the  other  day:  '  One  must  feel 
that  the  lasting  triumphs  of  mankind  belong  to 
the  wielders  of  the  written  word;  that  it  is  by 
the  shades  and  semitones  of  language  that  soul 
speaks  across  the  centuries  to  soul;  that  it  is  by 
verbal  contours  and  pigments  wrought  into 
shapes  of  loveliness  and  power  that  the  heart  is 
shaken  and  the  mind  subdued.' ' 

"  Bravo!  that  is  poetry." 

"  I  have  a  good  memory;  the  phrase  stuck 
to  it;  it  isn't  my  own.  He  writes  good  English, 
our  Sainte-Beuve!  Do  you  read  his  editorials? 
They  are  full  of  fire.  You  see  he  thinks  with  me 
that  the  word  is  a  missionary,  a  means,  not  an 
end." 

325 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  Come,  come,  who  doesn't?  Our  friend 
across  the  seas  has  himself  lately  uttered  a  note 
of  pain.  I  felt  my  eyes  film.  There  seemed 
some  hope  for  him  even  with  you."  Mr.  Ather- 
ton  laughed  again.  "  I  consider  his  characteri- 
zations admirable.  They  are  delicate  types. 
He  is  a  stenciler." 

"  Well,  I'll  concede  that  one  of  his  stories, 
one  of  the  last,  even  though  the  people  were 
phantoms  and  the  hero  was  a  seraph — are  ser- 
aphs male  or  female,  by  the  way?  I  never  could 
discover — did  manage  to  distress  me.  There 
was  a  despairing  cry  somewhere  hidden  in  it,  a 
tear  drowned.  I  never  respected  the  fellow  half 
so  well." 

"  And   he   is   never   coarse,   like "     He 

named  a  contemporary  Englishman  whose  au- 
dacity alarmed. 

"  Coarse!  Why,  life  is  coarse.  You  can't 
be  squeamish  and  portray  it.  You  realists,  Ath- 
erton,  are  the  most  inconsequent  creatures. 
You  shriek  for  the  truth  and  when  they  give  it 
to  you  make  wry  faces." 

The  ladies  in  their  twilight  angle  were  talk- 
ing chiffons. 

326 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  I  have  just  come  from  Madame  Donovan's. 
What  taste  she  has!  Her  models  are  most  orig- 
inal." 

"  I  was  there  yesterday.  It  was  quite  a  re- 
ception; a  crowd." 

"  I  told  her  to  put  away  that  yellow  and  sil- 
ver for  you.  It  has  just  your  chic." 

They  turned  to  gossip. 

"  Do  people  really  talk  of  Bianca  Light  with 
Lord  Sylvester?  "  Mrs.  Heathcote  asked. 

"  Her  mother  does."     Both  ladies  laughed. 

"  And  is  Pauline's  husband  really  to  run  for 
Congress?  " 

"  So  she  says."  Mrs.  Gresham's  chin  indi- 
cated the  lady  of  the  house.  "  You  can  fancy 
she's  enchanted,  even  promises  to  provide  the 
cash.  That's  the  hardest.  She's  growing  very 
parsimonious  with  the  years." 

"  Who's  that  rodent  with  her  now?  He 
looks  very  nasty!  " 

"  How  should  I  know?  They  flock  here, 
these  vermin.  They  imagine  cheese.  One 
can't  tell  whether  she  is  sincere  with  them  or 
only  posing  to  astonish  them." 

"  They  are  certainly  sufficiently  astonished." 
327 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  One  thing  is  quite  certain,  they  won't  get 
paid,  they  won't  get  their  cheese.  This  keeps 
one  easy  for  her,  poor  dear!  " 

"  What  should  we  do  without  her?  " 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  we  should  do  very  well. 
We  are  all  ungrateful.  Society  is  cruel  as  the 
grave.  It  misses  nobody." 

"  It  has  been  wonderful,  her  sway." 

"  Yes.  Eighteen  years  ago,  when  Pauline 
trotted  off,  do  you  remember  how  the  women 
cackled?  Those  bloodless  insect  ones  who  sting 
because  they  are  anaemic,  who  need  blood  and 
so  suck  other  people's.  It  was  Pauline,  only 
Pauline,  who  allured.  Everyone  would  desert 
now.  Her  house  would  become  a  desert.  She 
would  never  more  be  the  desired  guest.  She 
would,  at  best,  retain  a  succh  d'estime  for  half 
a  year." 

"  Yes,  and  nothing  of  the  kind  happened  at 
all,  it  seems.  That  was  before  my  day." 

"  It  wasn't  Pauline,  it  was — herself.  She 
went  right  on,  and  people  came  flocking  to  her, 
and  she  moved  here  to  this  charming  house. 
Yet,  lately,  do  you  know,  I  have  imagined  her 
power  was  waning  a  little." 
328 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  Yes,  I  have  noticed  it.  She  is  crowded  out 
by  the  new  people." 

"  Think  of  it.  That  is  what  she  used  to  be 
called,  new!  "  They  laughed. 

"  Pauline's  marriage  is  very  happy,  is  it 
not?" 

"  Yes,  absolutely  so,  I  believe.  She  has  two 
exquisite  children;  her  husband  is  able,  success- 
ful. She  looks  well,  very  handsome,  more  rosy 
than  in  her  girlhood.  They  hardly  ever  come 
to  town,  they  live  at  their  place  all  the  year.  He 
is  in  politics.  Mrs.  Clyde  says  she  can  not  drag 
them  down  for  a  fortnight's  gaiety.  Pauline 
hates  it." 

"  How  odd,  and  such  a  belle  as  she  was!  " 

"  Her  heart  was  never  in  it.  She  was  ro- 
mantic." 

"  Mrs.  Clyde's  daughter!  " 

"  She  had  a  father." 

"  Old  Clyde?     Was  he  romantic?  " 

"Perhaps;  I  never  knew  him." 

"  He  did  not  look  it;  I  saw  him  once  when 
I  was  a  child.  But  here  come  the  ambassa- 
dors." 

The  German  and  Belgian  ministers  were  an- 
329 


Mrs.  Clyde 

nounced.  "Ah!  here  you  all  are!  Cushions" 
— the  Prussian  stumbled  over  one — "  flowers, 
tea,  ladies  and  Monsieur  Remington."  Greet- 
ings were  exchanged.  Mrs.  Clyde  brusquely 
dismissed  her  homme  d'affairs,  who  sidled  out 
with  a  crab-like  bow  to  right  and  left. 

At  his  club  that  night,  over  his  kidney  stew 
and  whisky  and  water,  he  could  brag  to  his  con- 
tentment of  his  footing  and  familiarity  with  Mrs. 
Clyde  and  her  female  friends.  He  had  taken  tea 
with  her  that  very  afternoon.  As  the  alcohol 
warmed  his  veins  he  expatiated  on  the  charms  of 
Mrs.  Heathcote  and  Mrs.  Gresham,  and  the 
agreeable  manners  of  the  diplomatic  corps.  His 
friends  listened,  more  incredulous  than  awed. 
Such  as  believed  him  had  themselves,  in  guise  of 
interviewers  or  informants,  penetrated  into  the 
atmosphere  of  that  august  presence  and  they  had 
come  forth  sadder  men.  In  fact,  one  newspaper 
reporter  forcing  himself  at  an  unbidden  moment, 
had  met  such  voluble  rebuff,  such  opprobrious 
epithet,  such  reckless  expletive,  that  the  sense 
of  obloquy  made  him  peculiarly  hilarious  over 
his  comrade's  brighter  fortune. 

"  I  say,  Johnny,"  he  kept  repeating,  "  the 
330 


Mrs.  Clyde 

old  lady's  got  a  mash  on  you,  that's  certain.  I 
never  was  one  of  her  little  pets.  How  do  you 
do  it,  eh,  old  man?  Give  us  a  tip.  We  want  to 
play  with  the  quality,  too." 

Yes,  she  had  held  her  own.  But  these 
women,  were  they  right?  Was  it  slipping 
from  her  now,  that  wand  so  feverishly  coveted, 
so  tightly  grasped?  was  it  insecure?  Were  the 
hands  weakening  just  a  little?  Was  there  a  mo- 
ment's atony?  a  loosening  of  the  clutch?  It 
hardly  seemed  so  this  afternoon.  It  was  a  very 
energetic  step  with  which  she  moved  to  the  mir- 
ror after  her  guests'  departure,  and  a  stout  voice 
in  which  she  reprimanded  the  servant's  careless- 
ness for  dropping  coal  upon  the  carpet.  When 
the  malefactor  had  retreated — his  compunction 
seemed  perfunctory — she  did  a  peculiar  thing. 
She  examined  herself  critically  in  the  glass — not 
herself,  but  her  front  teeth.  She  touched  one 
to  find  that  it  moved  slightly.  Mrs.  Clyde  was 
not  a  vain  woman.  In  fact,  it  was  the  complaint 
of  a  rising  generation  of  dainty  self-worshippers 
that  her  toilet  was  somewhat  slighted  to  meet 
the  exigencies  of  her  busy  days;  that  she  hurried 
the  preparations  in  which  they  dawdled  so  many 


Mrs.  Clyde 

hours.  There  were  other  things  they  found  to 
blame.  The  presence,  for  instance,  of  the 
"  rats,"  who,  if  not  "  introduced,"  were  neverthe- 
less obnoxious  in  drawing-rooms  where  one 
wished  to  talk  freely  and  not  be  recorded.  She 
was  not  vain,  and  she  was  now  an  elderly  wom- 
an, less  than  ever  engaged  in  thought  of  per- 
sonal conquest  and  growing  careless  as  to  per- 
sonal adornment.  There  was  one  beauty,  how- 
ever, which  the  devastating  processes  of  time  in 
the  gradual  fading  of  complexion  and  thinning 
of  hair  had  respected.  She  had  retained  her 
pretty  teeth.  It  was  with  a  peculiar  start  of  ap- 
prehension she  recognised  an  impending  calam- 
ity, for  such  it  seemed  to  her.  "  A  front  one, 
too,"  she  said  aloud.  "  How  dreadful!  It  must 
be  the  dentist's  fault;  I  must  go  there  and  see  if 
anything  can  be  done  to  save  it.  Those  horrid 
tea-biscuits  would  loosen  nails  out  of  one's 
shoes."  The  simile  was  not  pertinent  or  happy, 
but  its  felicity  was  of  no  moment  in  the  revela- 
tions of  her  melancholy  investigation.  Her 
hands  felt  cold,  her  heart  heavy  at  the  prospect  of 
this  new  battle  with  time  which  she  knew  was 
already  lost  and  whose  waging  is  deemed  by  the 
332 


Mrs.  Clyde 

onlooker  absurd  or  tragical  according  to  his  na- 
ture or  his  mood.  "  I  once  heard  of  a  woman  all 
of  whose  teeth  loosened  and  fell  from  the  gums  at 
thirty,"  she  thought  with  a  shudder.  "  I  have 
kept  mine  so  much  longer,  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
be  grateful."  But  somehow  it  hurt  her,  and  all 
that  evening  at  a  dinner  party  the  necessitated 
prudence  of  the  dilemma  left  its  sting  of  torment. 

"  Mrs.  Philetus  was  not  in  good  form,"  said 
the  hostess,  crossly,  to  her  husband  afterward. 
They  were  a  youthful,  modest  pair  who  had 
somewhat  advertised  the  important  matron  to 
help  on  their  entertainment.  "  She  was  dull  and 
sleepy;  I  am  sorry  I  asked  her.  She  is  gener- 
ally such  good  fun." 

"  I  did  not  notice  anything  wrong." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  you  never  notice  anything. 
You  are  too  busy  saying  to  the  women  the  one 
thing  that  I  wish  you  would  not." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  mean  that  there  is  a  form  of  suffering 
Dante  left  out  of  his  Purgatory,  that  is  listening 
to  one's  husband — if  he  happens  to  be  that  kind 
— putting  one  down  hopelessly  into  the  cate- 
gory of  dowdies  by  his  admissions  of  one's 
22  333 


Mrs.  Clyde 

makeshifts,  and  his  explanations  that  it  is  only 
when  one  has  company  that  one  dines  at  eight 
and  has  pudding." 

"  You  must  be  crazy." 

"  A  form  of  insanity,  my  dear,  shared  by  a 
good  many  wives,  I  imagine." 

"  I  can't  understand." 

"  Why  did  you  tell  Mrs.  Clyde  that  I  made 
my  gown  myself  out  of  one  of  mamma's  and 
that  I  got  up  every  morning  at  seven  to  wash 
the  baby?  " 

"  Why,  I  wanted  her  to  know  what  a  clever 
little  puss  you  were." 

"  I  detest  you!  "  said  the  young  woman, 
bursting  into  tears.  "  There's  no  use,  I  simply 
can't  bear  it.  I  hoped,"  she  sobbed,  "  they 
would  never  find  out  the  butler  was  hired,  and 
I  heard  you  saying  so  to  that  horrid,  smirking 
Mrs.  Mount-Cuthbert " 

"  Why,  my  darling,  he  smelled  so  of  onions 
I  thought  it  better  to  disclaim  him  as  our 
own." 

"  Couldn't  they  find  that  out  without  your 
attracting  attention  to  it?  " 

Mrs.  Clyde  was  forgotten  in  a  moist  embrace 
334 


Mrs.  Clyde 

in  which  the  penitent  blatantly  abjured  every 
vestige  of  his  self-respect. 

When  Mrs.  Clyde  returned  from  this  feast 
at  which  she  had  left  such  consternation,  she 
found  a  young  gentleman  smoking  a  cigar  in  her 
library.  It  was  her  nephew,  Dunham  Crane. 
He  was  the  son  of  that  Ringletta  of  distant  days 
who  was  still  alive,  still  on  the  Merrimac,  and 
the  mother  of  many  children.  This  was  her 
youngest.  Mr.  Dunham  had  died;  Mary,  the 
maiden  sister,  lived  at  the  homestead.  Gabriella 
went  there  more  and  more  infrequently,  and  to 
her  nephews  and  nieces  she  was  little  more  than 
a  name. 

Picking  up  a  newspaper  one  morning  she 
had  been  struck  with  the  portrait  of  a  youth 
upon  its  first  page,  and  in  other  papers  she  found 
the  same  limning — the  fatal  pictorial  epidemic 
had  set  in.  On  this  particular  morning  he 
seemed  to  be  everywhere,  and  there  was  his 
name  too,  in  large  type,  with  several  columns 
dwelling  upon  him  in  encomiums  mixed  with 
measurements  of  chest  and  thigh,  weight,  width 
and  girth,  with  a  word  thrown  in  about  bloody 
beef  and  weak  tea  diet.  It  dawned  upon  her 
335 


Mrs.  Clyde 

that  she  was  the  insignificant  aunt  of  a  far- 
famed  celebrity.  It  was  now  only  a  running 
match,  but  there  were  reminiscences,  unob- 
served by  her  at  the  time,  of  the  sporting  col- 
umns of  the  last  year.  He  was  growing,  it 
seemed.  There  had  been  boat  races,  a  tennis 
triumph.  Here  was  a  hero  indeed!  She 
skipped  the  details,  they  always  tired  her,  and 
asked  the  errant  knight  of  her  afternoon  tea 
hour  confusing  questions.  She  was  answered 
with  surprise.  Why!  didn't  she  know  the  full 
measure  of  this  youth's  renown?  He  was  the 
finest  "pitcher"  in  the  country;  had  done  a 
phenomenal  series  in  the  international  cham- 
pionship at  Toronto;  he  was  immense!  And  to 
think  that  she  had  pitied  them,  these  Cranes  of 
Dunham;  wondered  how  to  help  them,  and  so, 
wondering,  had  ignored  them!  And  all  the 
time  they  were  developing,  learning  how  to 
walk  alone,  to  leap,  to  fly,  to  wrestle,  to  endure. 
Wonderful  inheritance  of  a  common  ancestry! 

"  Dear  little  fellow,"  she  said  to  her  friends, 
"  I  am  going  to  send  for  him.     He  is  just  out  of 
college,  with  honours,  I  am  told,  for  he  is  some- 
thing more  than  an  athlete."     A  girl  who  was 
336 


Mrs.  Clyde 

present  thought  the  "  more  "  superfluous.  "  It 
is  but  right  that  he  should  have  a  New  York 
frolic.  Please,  Mr.  Atherton,  put  him  up  at  the 
Knickerbocker,  and  you,  Mr.  Remington,  at 
the  Union.  I  am  going  to  ask  the  women  to 
be  nice  to  him.  I'll  give  a  dance  next  Thurs- 
day." 

"  Why,  we're  just  standing  about  to  see  him 
arrive,"  said  Mr.  Atherton.  "  There  will  be  a 
procession  and  lanterns,  I  am  sure  of  it.  All  we 
ask  is  to  beat  the  drums." 

"  Depend  upon  it,  he  can  toddle  alone,"  said 
Mr.  Remington.  "  The  future  belongs  to  girth 
and  brawn." 

"  And  how  they  despise  us,"  sighed  Ather- 
ton, "  we  who  are  fast  becoming  the  irksome  mi- 
nority." 

"  Clever  people  bore  stupid  ones  much  more 
than  stupid  ones  the  clever,"  said  Mrs.  Heath- 
cote,  who  had  dropped  in  to  leave  a  bunch  of 
roses  for  Mrs.  Clyde  from  the  glass  houses  of  her 
ferme  ornee. 

"  In  other  words,"  said  Atherton,  "  we  get 
out  of  people  and  things  only  that  with  which 
we  supply  them." 

337 


Mrs.  Clyde 

It  is  an  uneventful  life  in  which  the  records 
of  childhood  are  closely  prized.  They  grow 
musty  on  the  shelves  where  brighter  volumes  of 
later  data  are  stored.  Yet  Gabriella  remarked 
with  interest  the  likeness  of  her  nephew  to  the 
fair  sister  who  had  been  the  companion  of  her 
girlhood  and  it  recalled  a  vivid  past. 

"  Bless  me,"  she  greeted  him,  "  how  you 
have  grown!  It  seems  but  yesterday  that  you 
were  an  infant.  So  like  Ringletta,  too;  the 
same  hair.  And  how  are  they  all  at  dear  Dun- 
ham? Is  your  aunt  Mary  nicely,  and  your 
mother?  Did  you  know  my  son-in-law  would 
run  for  Congress?  We  are  all  agog  about  it. 
Your  cousin  Pauline  and  my  grandbabies  are 
up  the  Hudson.  I  gave  her  a  place  there. 
You  must  go  and  see  her.  She  will  be  de- 
lighted." 

As  she  disencumbered  herself  of  her  wraps 
and  advanced  under  the  lamps  with  the  patron- 
izing words,  she  wondered  if  he  was  awed  by  her 
entourage.  She  examined  him  from  head  to 
heel,  the  champion!  He  was  a  spare  young 
gentleman  of  medium  height  and  indefinite  col- 
ouring, pale,  with  a  pair  of  trenchant  blue  eyes, 
338 


Mrs.  Clyde 

thin  straight  lips  and  an  expression  of  great  in- 
telligence. 

He  was  dressed  neatly  but  without  elegance 
— there  was  some  lack  about  the  collar  and  neck- 
tie. Mrs.  Clyde  saw  at  once  that  it  would  need 
all  his  prestige  of  sport  and  hers  of  the  salon  to 
make  him  popular  in  her  circle.  Then,  as  she 
turned  him  over  thus  in  her  eye  and  her  judg- 
ment, she  became  aware  that  she,  too,  was  an 
object  to  him  of  the  keenest  curiosity;  that  he 
was  weighing  her  also  in  some  invisible  scale, 
holding  her  in  his  hands,  as  it  were,  and  lifting 
her  this  way  and  that  at  his  pleasure.  An  un- 
explained impulse  led  her  to  hoist  back  to  her 
fat,  very  bare  shoulders  the  half-discarded  drap- 
eries of  her  warm  opera  cloak.  Her  ringers 
were  laden  with  rings — her  manicure  was  suing 
her  for  the  care  of  her  nails.  These  jewelled, 
mortgaged  hands  raised  her  fan  before  her 
bosom,  with  a  helpless  gesture  at  once  protest- 
ing and  apologetic.  She  remembered  to  have 
had  the  same  sensation  sometimes  when  Pauline 
questioned  her  motives  and  impulses  with  inept, 
exasperating  insistence.  As  her  nephew  inves- 
tigated the  minutest  detail  of  her  apparel  she 
339 


Mrs.  Clyde 

recognised  the  same  mysterious  smile  upon  his 
lips  as  on  her  child's.  An  uneasy  impression 
fell  upon  her  that  instead  of  his  being  con- 
founded, as  she  had  expected,  with  her  magnifi- 
cence, he  gazed  at  it  with  the  ignorant  eye  of 
his  provincial  Yankee  intolerance. 

"My!  aren't  you  superb!"  he  said  to  her. 
"  I  knew  what  to  expect,  I  was  prepared,  but  I 
am  rattled! " 

She  found  no  word  to  answer,  but  continued 
to  hug  her  cloak  and  stare  at  him,  confused,  hu- 
miliated, she  knew  not  wherefore. 


340 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

HE  had  seen  her  huddling  up  a  church  aisle 
at  Dunham  on  one  or  two  occasions  with  the 
heavy  pall  of  a  family  funeral  over  her,  and  had 
been  the  recipient  of  a  muffled  black-crape  kiss. 
This  was  the  first  time  he  really  had  met  the 
lady  face  to  face  in  the  full  regalia  of  her  splen- 
dours. Unlike  the  reverent  shepherd  of  Midian, 
he  did  not  take  his  shoes  from  off  his  feet.  Rev- 
erence was  not  Dunham  Crane's  conspicuous 
characteristic.  He  was  somewhat  of  an  icono- 
clast. 

The  next  morning  she  had  recuperated  and, 
after  several  mornings — she  was  old-fashioned 
enough  to  appear  at  the  early  breakfast — over 
their  tea  and  chocolate,  at  nine  o'clock,  they 
became  fairly  good  friends.  The  free  hand  with 
which  he  emptied  the  entire  cream  jug  on  his 
hominy  and  the  avidity  with  which  his  teeth 
planted  themselves  in  her  best  sudatory  peaches, 
341 


Mrs.  Clyde 

proved  a  generous  mind  as  well  as  a  promising 
digestion.  In  his  evening  clothes  he  was  found 
to  meet  the  requisitions  of  convention,  and  the 
fact  that  he  danced  admirably  commended  him 
to  the  younger  set.  Absolutely  virtuous  in  his 
relations  with  the  other  sex,  Dunham  Crane 
thought  girls  created  to  dance,  married  women 
to  keep  the  pot  boiling.  With  a  keen  respect 
for  feminine  intellect  and  a  praiseworthy  belief 
in  women's  innocence,  the  allurement  of  their 
youth  as  the  helplessness  of  their  age  awoke  in 
him  not  one  thrill  of  gallantry,  not  one  spark 
of  devotion.  Chivalric  instincts  were  as  un- 
known to  him  as  unlawful  desires.  He  was  suf- 
ficient unto  himself.  Not  vain,  he  had  no  wish 
to  please.  With  but  mediocre  artistic  apprecia- 
tion, he  was  left  cold  by  beauty.  He  was,  how- 
ever, honest,  straightforward,  conscientious, 
cheery,  unaffected,  making  light  of  his  prowess 
and  of  the  notoriety  which  turns  older  and  more 
solid  heads.  . 

Was  it  then  some  hostility  of  two  nervous 
organizations  which  made  Mrs.  Clyde  feel  her- 
self at  disadvantage  when  in  his  company?     It 
was  difficult  to  explain,  but  sometimes,  as  she 
342 


Mrs.  Clyde 

watched  him  consuming  her  viands,  drinking 
her  coffee,  smoking  her  cigarettes,  she  asked 
herself  why  his  presence  in  her  house  brought 
to  her  a  certain  unrest.  An  odd  dissatisfaction 
possessed  her,  so  potent  indeed  that  her  sen- 
tences became  involved  and  ungrammatical 
when  she  addressed  him,  her  tongue  gave  unex- 
pected twists  to  her  simplest  meanings,  which 
were  coarsened  or  cheapened  without  her  own 
volition.  Had  she  encountered  in  this  stripling 
an  individuality  stronger  than  her  own?  Why 
was  it  that  in  the  midst  of  her  luxury  and  her 
puissance  she  sometimes  felt  herself,  under  the 
ray  of  his  chilly  eye,  only  a  grotesque  old  per- 
son, unwieldy  and  ridiculous?  This  impression 
deepened  one  day  at  the  luncheon  hour  into 
catastrophe. 

"  What  kind  of  a  hat  is  that?  "  her  nephew 
asked  abruptly,  holding  his  fork  half-way  to  his 
mouth.  He  had,  certainly,  the  New  England 
faculty  of  making  himself  disagreeable.  Mrs. 
Clyde  flushed. 

"  It  is  a  creation  of  Rebout's,  just  unpacked 
last  evening.  Do  you  not  like — magenta?  " 

"  It  is  too  flamboyant,"  he  replied,  filling  his 
343 


Mrs.  Clyde 

mouth  with  steak;  "it  sticks  up  too  much. 
You'd  be  mobbed  if  you  wore  it  in  Boston." 

"  Thank  God  I  live  in  New  York,"  ejacu- 
lated Mrs.  Clyde,  with  some  heat,  "  where  peo- 
ple are  too  much  occupied  to  mob  ladies  and 
their  bonnets  in  the  streets." 

"  Whew!  "  said  Dunham  Crane. 

Then,  feeling  he  must  be  taught  a  lesson,  she 
added,  with  spirit,  "  You  are  very  young,  my 
dear,  and  have  a  great  many  things  to  learn,  one 
of  which  is  that  when  you  don't  like  a  woman's 
dress  you  can  keep  your  opinion  to  yourself." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  good-natured- 
ly. "  I  did  not  mean  to  offend  you,  Aunt  Ga- 
briella."  But  there  was  a  twinkle  in  his  regard 
that  angered  her. 

"  Because  the  women  of  Dunham  put  on 
bombazine  and  caps  at  thirty,  it  is  no  reason  why 
women  of  a  higher  civilization  should  imitate 
them,"  she  said,  gaining  some  of  her  old  cour- 
age, which  somehow  lately  had  been  in  eclipse. 
"  In  Europe  it  is  women  of  my  age  who  rule 
society."  As  she  spoke  she  bit  with  violence 
into  a  piece  of  crust.  Something  snapped. 
She  thought  her  head  had  fallen  in  her  plate. 
344 


Mrs.  Clyde 

One  must  be  sound  for  vehemence.  With  her 
handkerchief  to  her  lip  she  beat  a  hasty  exit. 
She  did  not  appear  for  two  or  three  days,  can- 
celled her  engagements,  pleaded  illness.  Yet 
she  emerged  wrapped  in  dark  veilings  at  dusk 
and  was  driven  in  secret  to  her  dentist's. 

"  It  must  be  your  careless  work,"  she  said  to 
him,  in  her  altered  utterance. 

He  mounted  her  to  the  plush  throne,  adjust- 
ing his  glasses.  He  was  a  jocular  person  and  a 
philosopher,  as  suited  his  grim  calling. 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  my  work,"  he  said,  examining; 
"  come,  don't  be  unjust." 

"Well?     What?" 

"  It  is  anno  domini,"  he  answered,  laughing. 

Her  sense  of  humour  rose  to  meet  his  in  a 
smile  of  singular  vacuity.  "  I  look  so  queer," 
she  said. 

"  It  is  part  of  the  programme,  part  of  the 
programme,"  said  the  dentist,  with  brutal  kind- 
liness. 

"  Oh,  my  God!  how  horrible!  " 

"  Pshaw!  We  will  fix  you  up  in  a  jiffy. 
Nobody  will  be  the  wiser.  You  have  kept  along 
so  much  the  better  than  most  of  them.  Why, 
345 


Mrs.  Clyde 

the  lady  who  has  just  left  here,  a  young  wom- 
an  " 

"  Don't  tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Clyde,  writhing. 
"  I  had  rather  not  know." 

It  changed  her  very  little  after  all.  Only 
her  daughter  worried  over  it  and  one  or  two  in- 
timate friends  remarked  it,  so  skillfully  can  mod- 
ern artifice  repair  such  mishap. 

In  these  days  people  began  to  complain  that 
she  was  less  exclusive;  that  one  met  people  at 
her  house  who  were  at  least  "  doubtful;  "  that 
she  accepted  invitations  which  were  not  even 
this  but  positively  objectionable;  that  the  var- 
nish on  her  carriage  was  deplorably  cracked  and 
her  men-servants  were  shabby;  that  she  was  be- 
coming stingy,  the  first  herald  of  age.  The 
loudest  to  denounce  these  new  vagaries  of  one 
from  whom  was  slipping  something  so  hardly 
relinquished,  was  a  yotvng  woman  of  rare  beauty 
and  brilliant  position  whom  Mrs.  Clyde  had  res- 
cued from  seclusion  where  reverses  of  fortune 
had  plunged  her  family.  She  had  loudly  voiced 
the  girl's  loveliness  and  her  claims  to  recog- 
nition. Had  dressed,  housed,  carried  her  about; 
had  kept  her  for  months  at  Newport,  for  weeks 
346 


Mrs.  Clyde 

in  town,  had  taken  her  to  Europe,  and  finally 
had  married  her  to  the  first  parti  in  the  land, 
almost  in  the  world.  The  exchequer  of  Archer 
Orvis,  if  not  equal  to  the  czar's,  was  greater  than 
the  Queen  of  England's,  added  to  which  sub- 
stantial advantages  he  was  young  and  had  good 
looks,  sense,  health  and  temper,  was  well  born, 
well  bred,  and  ardently  enamoured.  The 
chorus  started  by  this  young  belle  was  quickly 
swelled  by  those  who  but  a  few  short  years  be- 
fore would  gladly  have  been  the  beneficiaries  of 
Mrs.  Clyde's  wide  hospitality,  but  to  whom  the 
hazard  of  fortune  had  brought  new  privileges  of 
criticism  and  detraction. 

Like  all  persons  reputed  wealthy  and  fre- 
quently named  in  daily  journals,  Mrs.  Clyde  was 
the  recipient  of  a  mail  freighted  with  quaint  in- 
consequence. Offers  of  marriage,  advertise- 
ments of  business  ventures,  recommendations  of 
patent  medicines,  cosmetics  and  hair  dyes, 
mingled  with  cries  of  famine,  appeals  to  power 
and  influence,  autograph  quests  and  the  relig- 
ious crank's  invective.  Rarely  worthy  of  no- 
tice or  reply,  the  pile  was  nevertheless  invariably 
examined.  To  the  beggars,  in  spite  of  her  re- 
347 


Mrs.  Clyde 

puted  parsimony,  she  did  not  always  turn  deaf 
ears.  One  morning  a  child's  scrawl  arrested  her 
attention.  Misspelled,  ingenuous  in  its  faith, 
stumbling  in  its  foolishness,  it  implored  "  rich  " 
Mrs.  Clyde  to  send  immediately  a  velocipede  to 
Peoria,  Illinois,  to  Gabriella  Funk.  "  All  the 
girls  in  my  class  have  'em,"  it  read,  "  but  pa's  to 
pur  to  give  i  to  me  O  ma'am  please  you'r  so 
rich  sen  me  i  &  i'le  pay  bak  if  ever  i  get  rich 
like  you."  There  was  upon  the  poor  little 
scrawl  an  unmistakable  stamp  of  genuineness. 
An  hour  later  Mrs.  Clyde,  touched — by  the 
name,  perhaps — somewhere  in  her  lonely  spirit 
— was  on  her  way  to  Maiden  Lane.  "  They  are 
better  and  cheaper  there;  the  uptown  men  are 
robbers."  She  bought  and  expressed  the  toy. 
She  also  stood  about  in  the  damp  and  wet  her 
feet. 

In  the  evening  there  was  to  be  a  banquet  in 
honour  of  a  Russian  grand  duke  at  the  house  of 
a  lady  who  many  years  before  had  given  Mrs. 
Clyde  a  kick  in  the  dressing-room  of  a  mutual 
friend.  It  may  be  said  that  she  had  not  kicked 
her  since,  and  the  two  were  reputed  allies.  But 
348 


Mrs.  Clyde 

we  seldom  adore  those  upon  whom  we  have 
heaped  indignity  and  who  later  surpass  us,  and 
it  is  safe  to  conjecture  that,  at  any  rate,  the  kick- 
er's affection  was  tepid.  She  exemplified  its 
measure  to-night  by  giving,  very  improperly, 
the  seat  of  honour  at  her  table  between  the  host 
and  the  royal  invite,  not  to  Mrs.  Clyde,  who  as  the 
eldest  person  present  and  the  best  known  was 
qualified  to  occupy  it,  but  to  the  slender  girl  she 
had  befriended.  Radiantly  beautiful,  mourning 
a  father-in-law  in  black  satin  and  diamond  cor- 
onet, patrician,  indolent,  disdainful,  the  spoiled 
child  of  destiny  slipped  as  if  it  were  a  right  into 
the  place  assigned  her,  while  Mrs.  Clyde,  aston- 
ished, apparently  overlooked — there  was  some 
mistake,  it  seemed,  of  wilful  malice  or  negligent 
forgetfulness,  about  her  seat — brought  up  the 
rear  as  best  she  could  on  the  arm  of  an  unknown 
broker  who  had  been  torn  from  his  obscurity  at 
the  eleventh  hour  to  fill  a  void.  The  evening 
was  raw  with  the  portent  of  snow.  She  had  ar- 
rived late.  She  felt  cold.  Between  her  and  the 
royal  guest  there  towered  a  mass  of  flowers. 
Quite  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  with  an  insignifi- 
cant member  of  the  grand  duke's  suite  at  her  left 
23  /  349 


Mrs.  Clyde 

who  spoke  no  tongue  coherently  except  his 
own,  she  had  time  to  indulge  in  such  reflections 
as  the  interminable  feast  permitted.  Now  and 
then  she  caught  a  sight  of  her  whilom  protegee, 
who  accorded  her,  after  a  blind  survey  devoid  of 
recognition,  a  supercilious  nod  snatched  from 
more  profitable  pastime. 

It  is  Dante,  I  believe,  who  plunges  ingrati- 
tude in  the  lowest  hell.  Here  it  holds  high 
revel.  None  escape  slights,  when  all  is  said, 
and  their  degree  lies  in  the  thickness  of  the  sur- 
face through  which  the  torturing  instrument  is 
thrust.  Mrs.  Philetus  Clyde  was  a  stalwart  war- 
rior whose  skin  was  tanned  by  long  exposure, 
nevertheless  to-night  the  limit  had  been  reached 
of  her  endurance.  Probably  she  was  already  ill 
and  the  resentment  and  the  pain  that  rose  to 
stifle  her  was  but  the  premonition  of  physical 
overthrow.  The  bitter  thoughts  that  welled 
within  her  were  indescribable.  She  tried  in  vain 
to  combat  them,  not  to  give  these  cruel  women 
a  chance  to  gloat  at  her  discomfiture,  not  to  be 
made  a  subject  of  their  raillery  and  jests.  But 
by  and  bye  her  heart-beats  seemed  to  cease,  she 
gasped  and  put  out  one  hand.  In  the  general 
350 


Mrs.  Clyde 

gaiety  no  one  observed  that  she  swayed  from 
side  to  side  until  an  exclamation  from  the  broker 
drew  the  attention  of  the  Russian  secretary. 
Between  them  they  assisted  her  to  the  drawing- 
room.  The  hostess  did  not  leave  her  seat.  She 
ordered  that  a  maid  be  sent  to  Mrs.  Clyde,  who 
pleaded  faintness;  she  also  ordered  a  window 
opened  lest  his  royal  highness  should  suffer  dis- 
comfort. The  room  was  overwarm.  Mrs.  Or- 
vis  raised  a  languid  eyelash  and  laughed  in  the 
duke's  eyes.  "  She  is  one  of  our  eccentrics,"  she 
said,  shrugging  her  shoulders.  "  Perhaps  she 
did  it  to  attract  attention." 

The  disturbing  element  adroitly  swept  away 
with  the  untouched  wine,  the  plate  and  chair, 
the  broker  and  the  Slav  drew  across  the  gap. 
The  ripple  of  talk  for  an  instant  suspended 
flowed  on  unruffled.  All  trace  of  a  discordant 
presence  was  effaced  before  the  rumbling  of  the 
convenient  cab  had  died;  for  a  cab  was  got  and 
she  was  put  into  it.  A  footman  amiably  pre- 
pared to  jump  to  the  box — Mrs.  Clyde's  own 
carriage  had  not  returned — but  she  insisted  that 
she  felt  better  and  declined  the  servant's  offer. 
She  considerately  thought  he  might  be  missed 


Mrs.  Clyde 

on  such  a  night;  the  distance  was  not  great. 
The  grand  duke  continued  to  absorb  his  dinner 
with  composure.  He  had  not  caught  the  name 
of  the  large  lady  who  had  vanished.  He  was 
rather  bored.  He  preferred  an  entirely  different 
society,  which  was  more  animated.  Nature,  he 
thought,  made  the  woman;  society  the  lady. 
He  preferred  the  former.  He  was  sick  of 
shams.  The  propitiatory  grace  of  the  child  at 
his  side  said  little  to  his  senses;  of  imagination 
he  had  none.  It  may  be  as  well  that  princes 
and  kings  are  generally  vulgar  souls — their  re- 
sponsibilities would  kill  the  sensitive. 

The  cab  lumbered  up  the  avenue.  An  icy 
draft  pierced  through  the  loose  panes.  A  light 
snow  had  fallen.  It  lay  in  heaps  where  the  wind 
had  whisked  it.  In  other  spots  the  asphalt  was 
quite  black,  mirror-like,  and  once  or  twice  the 
shambling  horse  shied  at  his  own  reflection. 
The  flakes  had  crystallized  against  the  lamps, 
making  them  look  like  mystic  moons  lost  in 
gray  space.  The  driver  breathed  on  his  palms, 
blowing  out  from  his  lungs  wreaths  of  bluish 
vapour.  When  he  pulled  up  with  a  jerk  at  Mrs. 
Clyde's  door  he  sat  still  on  his  perch  for  a  few 
352 


Mrs.  Clyde 

moments,  then  he  began  to  doze,  with  one  of 
those  sudden  torpors  common  to  men  who  sit 
all  day  in  the  open  air.  He  did  not  know  if  he 
had  slept,  he  did  not  know  how  long  he  had  sat 
there;  no  one  disturbed  him,  no  one  stirred  in- 
side. By  and  bye  he  shook  himself,  surprised, 
and  tumbling  from  the  box  peered  in  at  the 
window.  It  was  open.  Two  dark,  gleaming, 
terrible  eyes  met  his  own  dazed  ones.  She  tried 
to  speak  to  him.  He  saw  she  could  not,  that 
something  was  amiss  with  her. 

"  God  Almighty  save  us,"  he  exclaimed,  "  but 
the  poor  lady  has  had  a  stroke!  " 

He  floundered  up  the  steps  and  rang  the 
bell  several  times.  It  reverberated  loudly 
through  the  silent  house.  The  drowsy  "  second 
man,"  thinking  it  was  a  beggar — this  was  their 
hour — turned  over  in  Mrs.  Clyde's  favourite 
armchair  before  her  library  fire  and  took  another 
nap.  The  butler  roused  him  with  an  oath, 
threatening  to  tell  on  him.  When  they  got  her 
into  the  hall  at  last,  before  they  could  undress 
her,  she  sank  to  the  floor.  The  servants — mostly 
new  ones — were  greatly  frightened.  They  fell 
over  one  another,  uselessly  declamatory.  The 
353 


Mrs.  Clyde 

women  screamed  aloud.  On  the  whole,  however, 
they  found  it  interesting  and  piquant.  Cabby's 
bloated  disk  protruded  from  the  doorway  claim- 
ing his  fare.  He  was  pressed  into  the  service  and 
sent  to  the  doctor's  with  the  promise  of  ample 
rewards.  A  gentleman  friend,  Mr.  Remington, 
was  thought  to  be  in  town,  and  the  housekeeper 
sent  him  a  note  addressed  to  the  club  where  she 
fancied  that  he  dined.  But  he  did  not  come. 
He  was  not  there  or  at  his  rooms,  where  the  club 
steward  despatched  the  messenger.  A  telegram 
was  indited  to  Mrs.  Trefusis.  At  midnight  an 
answer  came  from  the  Hudson  River  station 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Trefusis  were  in  California. 
Then  the  housekeeper  and  the  maids  all  remem- 
bered that  Mrs.  Clyde  had  told  them  so.  A 
former  nurse  of  Pauline's,  who  lived  in  Varick 
Street,  was  summoned.  At  four  o'clock  of  the 
morning  she  arrived.  The  physicians  were  in 
attendance.  They  had  found  the  helpless  heap 
which  had  been  dragged  to  the  study  sofa  still 
dressed  out  in  its  jewels  and  velvets.  They 
brought  some  calm  and  some  common  sense. 
And  now  Mrs.  Clyde  was  in  her  bed.  With  the 
loosening  of  her  garments  voice  had  come  back 
354 


Mrs.  Clyde 

to  her,  breathless,  laboured,  but  still  audible. 
There  was  no  stroke;  it  was  something  of  the 
heart  and  lungs  with  acute  complications  of  con- 
gestion. The  old  nurse  from  Varick  Street 
brought  a  measure  of  affection  to  her  task  of 
watcher. 

"  Poor  dear,"  she  said,  soothingly,  as  she 
patted  the  pillows.  "  Poor  dear,  and  not  a  chick 
to  tell  her  sorrows  to."  For  Mrs.  Clyde  raved 
at  the  ingratitude  of  the  world,  raved,  moaned 
and  tossed  and  fretted.  Her  arraignment  of 
Mrs.  Orvis  hurtled  against  sharp  inquiries  as  to 
the  condition  of  her  affairs.  She  incoherently 
cried  out  wild  accusations  against  a  community 
disposed  to  treacherous  practices.  The  nurse 
insisted  there  was  a  friend  in  Boston  who  should 
be  sent  for,  a  Mrs.  Devereux.  By  the  fortunate 
aid  of  a  retentive  memory  she  recalled  her  ad- 
dress. The  next  morning  Mr.  Remington  was 
installed  in  the  library  to  receive  visitors.  A 
few  inquisitive  women  looked  in  and  asked  fool- 
ish questions.  In  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Devereux 
came.  She  wired  to  Dunham.  Miss  Mary  was 
ill  with  a  fever,  Mrs.  Crane  and  her  son  had  just 
sailed  for  Bermuda,  Lydian  could  not  leave  a 
355 


Mrs.  Clyde 

daughter  on  the  eve  of  a  dangerous  accouche- 
ment. Pauline's  nurse  met  the  new-comer  at 
the  door. 

"  I  sent  for  the  bishop,"  she  said  to  her. 
"  He  is  absent,  but  there  is  a  young  clergyman 
in  the  parlour,  only  she  won't  see  him." 

"  Have  him  sent  away !  "  Mrs.  Clyde  was 
persisting  in  hoarse  entreaty,  as  Clara  entered. 

"  Who  is  it?  "  she  said,  as  Mrs.  Devereux 
crossed  the  threshold.  "  Take  him  away.  He 
wants  to  talk  to  me  of  my  immortal  soul.  I 
don't  want  immortality.  I  want  peace." 

"  Gella,"  said  Mrs.  Devereux,  bending  over 
her. 

At  the  old  pet  name  so  rarely  heard  now, 
Mrs.  Clyde  started.  A  change  came  over  her 
features,  a  smile  for  a  moment  illumined  them. 

"  Who  spoke?  "  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  as 
one  who,  lost,  in  the  night  listens  to  some  echo 
in  the  world.  "  Ringletta,  is  that  you?  " 

"  No,  it  is  Coy." 

"What  Coy?     Coy  Train?  " 

"  No,  dear,  your  old  friend  Coy,  her  mother, 
Clara  Devereux." 

"  When  did  you  come?  " 
356 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  I  have  just  arrived." 

'  You  are  very  kind,  kinder  than  the  people 
here.  Tell  them  to  give  you  the  blue  room. 
Those  servants  do  nothing.  You  must  be  made 
comfortable.  They'll  all  get  dismissed  as  soon 
as  I  am  up." 

"  Ah,  Gella,  we  have  known  each  other  so 
many,  many  years." 

;<  Years  and  years,"  said  the  sick  woman, 
"  years  and  years  and  years." 

Mrs.  Devereux  began  to  cry,  softly,  on  the 
hand  she  clasped  between  her  own. 

Slowly,  slowly,  a  tear  crept  from  under  the 
dry  orb  of  Mrs.  Clyde's  eyelid.  Falling,  it  min- 
gled with  those  of  her  friend.  She  pulled  her 
down  close  and  whispered,  as  she  so  held  her,  in 
her  ear: 

"  That  silly  boy  came  in  here  to  promise  me 
that  if  I  repented  of  my  sins  I'd  have  an  eternity 
of  joy.  I  don't  want  it.  I  don't  want  him.  I 
might  have  been  willing  to  see  the  bishop;  he 
understands  me;  he  is  a  man  of  the  world.  I 
don't  know  if  my  sins  have  been  blacker  than 
those  of  the  people  who  have  eaten  my  dinners 
and  reviled  them;  who  caressed  me  with  one 
357 


Mrs.   Clyde 

hand  while  the  other  was  in  my  pocket;  who 
fleeced  and  bled  me  and  now  flout  me.  I  have 
given  a  good  deal,  I  know,  and  I  have  got 
mighty  small  returns.  They  have  called  me 
mean  because  I  made  my  economies,  saved  for 
Pauline  and  her  little  children.  They  are  nice 
children — have  you  seen  them?  She  would 
marry  a  poor  man.  I  over-educated  her — 
speaking  dead  languages  and  playing  on  the 
piano,  harp  or  dudelsack  isn't  going  to  make  a 
girl  marry  well.  She  was  too  accomplished  for 
noodles  like  Beaumains.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
forgot  he's  your  son-in-law.  Mine  is  clever. 
His  politics  are  ruinous,  but  I  will  see  them 
through  it.  I  like  him.  He's  got  go  in  him. 
He  must  win.  We  must  win.  But,  between 
you  and  me,  Coy,  I  have  had  enough  of  it.  I 
don't  want  any  more.  If  I  thought  I'd  have  to 
live  forever  I  would  not  repent  to  get  heaven. 
Why  can't  they  let  me  alone?  I'm  tired  to 
death.  Don't  they  see  it?  So  tired" 

Tired!     She  had  said  it — voiced  that  inex- 
tinguishable fatigue  which  waits  upon  the  feet 
of  life.     Who  does  not  know  that  hour  of  dis- 
couragement when  promise  palls  and  fulfilment 
358 


Mrs.  Clyde 

exhausts?  Who  has  not  felt  the  peace  of  the 
last  ritual,  "Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust"? 
Who  has  not  turned  from  immortality  to  long 
for  oblivion?  The  enfolding  darkness!  Good- 
night! Good-night!  Welcome,  kind  sleep,  too 
deep  for  tears! 

Somewhat  shocked  at  this  exhibition  of 
spiritual  indigence,  Mrs.  Devereux  shrank  at  a 
problem  too  profound  for  her  simple  faith.  She 
contented  herself  with  purling  forth  a  word 
about  the  love  of  Christ. 

"  His  love?  "  said  the  sick  woman.  "  I'm 
sure  it  can't  be  like  that  of  his  creatures — a  poor 
thing  enough.  I  am  as  God  made  me,  a  useless 
enough  bundle  of  goods  just  now.  I  guess  he 
knows  his  handiwork  and  my  needs  without  my 
bothering  him  and  wasting  my  breath — it's  short 
enough.  He  has  got  his  hands  full.  Why 
should  I  chatter  with  that  foolish  lad  who  came 
in  here  to  persuade  me  I  was  in  danger  of  per- 
dition and  to  tell  me  nonsense  I  was  brought  up 
on,  and  knew  all  about  before  he  was  born?  " 

The  priest  was  put  off  with  the  excuse  of 
needed  repose. 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  have  come,"  said  the 
359 


Mrs.  Clyde 

physician,  intercepting  Mrs.  Devereux  as  she 
crossed  the  hall.  "  She  seems  so  alone.  I  will 
now  leave  her  in  your  charge  until  her  daughter 
can  arrive,  with  the  nurses  and  my  assistant, 
whom  you  will  find  in  the  study  at  the  head  of 
the  stairs." 

Mrs.  Devereux  went  to  the  study.  The  as- 
sistant was  sitting  at  Mrs.  Clyde's  desk  writing  a 
prescription.  He  was  a  young  man  with  a  sharp, 
clear-cut  profile  and  a  frowning,  intent  brow. 

"  Do  I  disturb  you?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  have  done,"  he  replied,  rising. 

"  Is  she  very  ill?  " 

"  Yes,  she  is  very  ill." 

"  Have  you  long  been  her  physician?  " 

"  My  chief  has.     I  never  saw  her  before." 

"  You  had  heard  of  her,  of  course."  Mrs. 
Devereux  smiled  as  she  seated  herself. 

The  butler  had  brought  her  a  cup  of  tea  and 
she  stopped  to  drink  it. 

"  No,  none,  thanks,"  said  the  doctor,  declin- 
ing the  domestic's  proffer. 

"  She  is  a  remarkable  woman,"  she  con- 
tinued. 

"  Ah?     How  so?  "  asked  the  physician. 
360 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  Why,  in  every  way.  Her  career  has  been 
wonderful,  exceptional." 

"  I  don't  have  much  time  for  social  notes. 
We  don't  read  them  in  the  hospitals,"  he  replied. 

"  No,  I  suppose  not.  But  Mrs.  Clyde  was 
more  than  a  mere  butterfly  " — she  corrected  the 
past  tense — "  she  is  a  very  brilliant  woman. 
Her  house  has  been  the  resort  of  distinguished 
people." 

"  They  seem  to  have  left  her  pretty  well  to 
herself — the  distinguished  people!  I  have  not 
met  with  a  lonelier  death-bed." 

"  Do  you  think  her  in  such  danger?  " 

"  I  said  death-bed  because,"  he  went  on, 
"  she  was  in  danger." 

"  And  now  do  you  think  she'll  pull 
through?  " 

"  We  have  hope  of  it.  She  has  rallied  mar- 
vellously. The  action  of  the  heart  is  almost 
normal." 

"  Do  you  despise  people  of  her  type?  "  said 
Mrs.  Devereux,  boldly,  looking  at  him. 

"  What !  People  who  do — er — this  sort  of 
thing?  "  he  said,  glancing  up  at  the  rich  hang- 
ings, the  pictures  and  the  bric-a-brac  upon  the 
361 


Mrs.  Clyde 

walls  and  tables,  and  at  the  cards  and  invitations 
which  strewed  the  escritoire. 

;<  Yes,  who  have  her  ambitions  and  the 
genius  to  forward  them." 

He  looked  narrowly  at  the  worn,  gentle  face 
of  his  interlocutor.  "  I  think  there  are  more 
important  things." 

"What  are  they?"  said  Mrs.  Devereux. 
"  Are  all  our  earthly  hopes  and  schemes  and  at- 
tainments then  futile,  useless?  You,  for  in- 
stance, what  are  you  working  for  night  and  day? 
Granted  you  wish  to  alleviate  suffering — a  noble 
aspiration — shall  you  forego  the  rewards  of 
fame?  "  She  was  amazed  at  her  own  temerity. 

"  Oh,  don't  rank  me  too  high,"  he  said  with 
a  caustic  laugh.  "  I  am  working  for  money, 
nothing  else.  Just  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the 
door  that  my  mother  and  sisters  may  not  starve. 
I  long  ago  gave  up  all  dreams  of  distinction. 
As  for  helping  humanity,  it  is  past  help." 

"  Why,  then,"  she  said,  "  are  you  so  hard  on 
others  whose  aims  may  be  equally  and  only  dif- 
ferently material?  Mrs.  Clyde  has  given  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure  to  others.  There  are  tempta- 
tions in  a  life  like  hers." 
362 


Mrs.  Clyde 

"  Was  I  hard?  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  sup- 
pose the  fight  for  bread  takes  sentimentality  out 
of  us  and  spoils  our  manners.  I  judge  nobody, 
least  of  all  this  lady.  I  was  curious  to  see  her, 
as  you  surmise;  I  had  heard  of  her.  She  looks 
like  a  gladiator.  I  am  not  impugning  her  re- 
finement; there  were  women  gladiators,  you 
know,  as  well  as  knights  and  senators.  No 
doubt  the  qualities  of  the  retiarii  and  secutores  " 
— he  was  near  his  classics — "  are  useful  in  her 
arena." 

"  She  was  a  gladiator  worthy  of  her  hire," 
said  Mrs.  Devereux,  smiling  sadly.  "  She  took 
the  prizes." 

"  One  would  not  think  so  to  look  at  her.  It 
is  an  unhappy  face.  One  wonders  if  they  were 
worth  her  while — the  prizes." 

"  Ah,  all  are  the  same!  They  vary  in  name 
only;  all,  at  least,  which  have  the  stain  of  earth 
upon  them." 

.  "  I  will  not  give  her  the  pollicem  versum.  I 
think  I  can  say  the  end  is  not  yet.  She  will  re- 
cover this  time.  She  is  very  strong." 

"  She  was  always  strong,"  said  Mrs.  Deve- 
reux. 

THE    END 


A     000120073     2 


